


the things who don't exist

by notmadderred



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-06-03 00:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19452895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmadderred/pseuds/notmadderred
Summary: Supernatural creatures are real, and their lives are changing in ways they aren't sure they're prepared for. At this point, hiding amongst mortals and avoiding hunters may be the least of their worries.Grif, for one, knows for a fact this wasn't what he signed up for when he got kicked out of his pack.





	1. Disappointed But Not Surprised

“You are the biggest fucking moron I have ever met.”

Grif huffed, swishing his tail once as he glared at Simmons. “You say that like it’s completely my fault.”

Simmons was looking up at him, left ear twitching in annoyance. Grif hadn’t met any other weredogs with this problem, but it was actually pretty cute. In a totally we’re-sort-of-friends-because-we’re-in-the-same-pack way. “You ate our whole winter supply, Grif,” Simmons deadpanned. “It _is_ completely your fault.” He suddenly bristled, glancing around anxiously. “Wait, did someone catch you? Is that why you’re telling me this?”

Grif closed his eyes. “Simmons, do you know me at all? I’ve been sneaking food ever since we got here, and not once have I been caught. That’s the nature of the game. I just figured you should know.” When he opened his eyes again, Simmons was giving him an incredulous look.

“Okay, then. What the actual fuck! I know werewolves eat more than weredogs, but that’s fucking ridiculous!” His body froze in a way Grif knew meant he was calculating something.

Grif sighed. “Please tell me you aren’t trying to figure out how my portions compare when--”

“You should only be getting one-point-six-seven times more food than me! How did your stomach hold all that? We’d gathered enough for two months!” he squeaked.

“Pft, don’t underestimate me. I made it work.” He lifted his chin. 

There was a beat. Then, “That’s really not something you should be proud of.”

He’d expected this reaction, so Simmons’ annoyed tone didn't faze him. Besides, it _had_ been impressive. Grif had carefully crafted this particular heist’s route four months in advance and taken from the reserves in one-pound intervals until this morning. Then he’d finished it off.

Nobody would know what hit them. Besides, it was Hammer guarding the stash today, and he was the easiest for Grif to sneak by.

That left him free to tell Simmons all about it while on their morning patrol. Simmons never reported to Lieu when Grif was late (“At this point, it isn’t even worth it,” the weredog had muttered, pawing at the floor when Grif asked him why Lieu hadn’t chastised him for being late that morning. “Nothing happens on our patrol, anyway.”), so he had an alibi. Too easy.

“Well, what are we supposed to do, then? Besides, that was food for _all_ of us. You’ll be starving just like everyone else when winter rolls around and there aren’t half as many animals to hunt!”

“You can’t hunt for shit,” Grif informed him.

“Shut the fuck up!” Simmons defended. His red fur was sticking up even more now, and Grif was left wondering, not for the first time, what he looked like in human form. “I contribute to this pack, unlike your lazy ass.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Grif drawled. 

Something that may have been a growl escaped Simmons’ throat, but Grif knew better than to worry. They’d already gotten in one spat earlier, and Grif had proven that werewolves’ naturally larger stature over weredogs wasn’t just a factor of intimidation. It certainly helped that Grif was large even by werewolf standards -- all he had to do was sit on Simmons, and the dog was left kicking his legs and yelping until he’d worn himself out and the two formed an odd camaraderie. They’d been patrol partners ever since.

Eventually, Simmons stopped his uneasy pacing. “Don’t come whining to me if you get caught,” he warned, his tail going low. “I don’t want to get pulled into your shit again.”

Grif gave Simmons a look. “What did I just tell you? I’m not gonna get--”

“Grif,” came a deep voice from behind them. Simmons yelped in surprise as they both turned to see Lieu standing there. He was watching the pair of them, tail swaying. “Simmons,” he added, his tone the same. “I’d like for you two to come back to base. Something has happened that we need to discuss.”

Grif totally expected Simmons to fold right then and there.

Instead, he offered a high-pitched, “Yes, sir!” and trotted away as fast as he could without looking too suspicious.

“Right,” he said before following Simmons. He had nothing to worry about, after all.

\----

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh _fuck_ ,” Simmons was saying, twirling in tight circles. They were about a mile and a half from camp at this point. It was impressive that Simmons held back from a breakdown until now. “What was I thinking. Oh God. We’re going to die. We’re going to die, and I’m going to die, and I _didn't even need to follow you here_. Why did I do that. Why did I back you. I’m an idiot. I’m supposed to be smart and yet I was a complete fucking idiot who decided to follow the biggest fucking moron in the pack when he got himself kicked out.”

The insult rolled right off Grif’s shoulders. He was sitting, as he had been for the past five minutes that this had been going on. “Technically, you were an accomplice. You didn't report me late to my shift.”

Simmons turned toward him with a snarl. “That’s because I never do. How was I supposed to know you were eating our whole pack’s supply? Fucking-- I would’ve been fine. I could have stayed.”

He could have. Grif was still wondering why Simmons had followed him. Actually, he was wondering a lot of things, like why Simmons had actually gone out of his way to defend Grif, who didn't even deserve defending. And why Simmons had huffed and snapped at Lieu after _two fucking years_ of kissing his ass. And why he’d looked at him, eyes steady as he said, “Come on, Grif,” and walked out of the base with fucking _confidence_. Like they would be totally fine. 

Why did Simmons do all that? Were they actually friends?

Well, it seemed he was coming to his senses. Grif’s tail thumped once against the ground. Simmons was going to turn back and beg for forgiveness any second now.

Simmons flopped onto his side. He looked dead. “We’re gonna die,” he said.

“Yup,” said Grif.

“What do we do?” Simmons’ voice was flat, apparently drained. “Find another pack? They don’t take stragglers during the winter, and that’s if we found one.”

Yeah, they’d been lucky to be in one. Most werewolves and weredogs just ended up dead. Chances were that the pack they’d just left was the only one in over a hundred miles. Which meant… 

“Well,” said Grif, “either we try to brave out the winter in the forest, or we--”

“Don’t you fucking say it--”

“Try to join mortal civilization.”

“You fucking said it.”

Grif lifted a paw that he hoped emphasized his point. “Look, we really don’t have any other options. If we’re honest with ourselves, neither of us will be able to stick it out in the cold. If we join the mortals, we’ll just need to-- I dunno-- find some money and get an apartment. Then we go from there. Get jobs, buy food, turn into a dog and wolf once a month--”

“An apartment?” Simmons squawked. His tongue was starting to loll out due to his position on the floor. Again, kind of cute. Again, just in a we’re-now-stuck-in-this-mess-together way. “I don’t even-- Grif, I’ve never lived among mortals. I’ve always lived in packs. I don’t even have a fucking clue what an apartment is!”

“Oh.” He had not known this. He… probably should have. They always talked, and yet somehow, this had never come up. Grif had grown up amongst mortals -- he hadn’t even thought of the fact that Simmons could’ve had a different experience. He felt guilty. But he wasn’t allowed to feel guilty because Simmons totally didn't have to involve himself in this mess. Yeah. Fuck that guy. “Um, it’s not hard.” This would be hopeless. Now that he thought about it, Simmons probably would be utterly incapable of passing as human given the nuances of the mortal world and unspoken rules and laws and dynamics that totally clashed with the wolfpack lifestyle. How the fuck would Grif explain something like renting to… okay, Simmons was smart. Ish. Simmons was good at math. Surely, he could figure some stuff out. Maybe not everything. Most things. Oh, fuck. “Yeah, it’ll be… so easy. So, uh, when you say you grew up in packs, does that mean you know literally nothing about mortals?”

Simmons blinked. “I…” He shifted off his side so he was laying on his stomach and looking at Grif. “Not beyond what I’ve heard. I’ve never, like, interacted with one.” His ears suddenly perked up. “But my father did occasionally bring stuff over from the mortal world.” God, he sounded like a nerd when he said ‘mortal world.’ “That’s how I learned math and science -- he always had new books. Plus, he also brought these things called safes for me to mess with for application of what I was learning.” 

Grif couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “He brought you… safes?”

Simmons nodded earnestly. “Yeah. They’re contraptions that work with codes. You have to use math and science to open them up. I’d try to explain it to you, but you wouldn’t understand.”

Grif withheld a retort. Okay. For now, he could just play along. This could work in his favor.

Simmons’ nose twitched. “There was never anything interesting inside. Father always just put paper in them until he… uh, nevermind.”

Simmons knew how to crack safes. Holy shit. “Right. Paper. Was it green paper?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.” He could potentially dig more into Simmons’ life story there, but honestly, he didn't care (Okay, maybe he did because the way Simmons said ‘Father’ was weird as fuck and perhaps a little disconcerting and Grif certainly knew a thing or two about dysfunctional family relationships also why the fuck had Simmons’ dad made Simmons crack fucking safes holy shit). He had the information they needed. Besides, they didn't talk about their lives. That was their thing. “Do you still remember how to do that?”

Simmons sat up, his ear twitching. “I think so. It’s been a while. Plus, I always messed with those in human form, and I haven’t been human since I joined Lieu’s pack. P- plus I don’t even--”

“Simmons,” he said as resolutely as possible, “we’re going to need to go into human form at some point. To survive.” His heart was racing just a bit, and he didn't let himself think about why. “We’re going to mix in with the mortals.”

Simmons’ tail shifted, and the dog promptly sat down in a way that made it obvious he was trying to keep it from tucking. “Wh- but I--”

“We have to,” he stated. “Besides, it’ll be fun.” Nah, mortals sucked balls. “Not to mention, that’s the only way we’ll live, and you know it.”

Simmons looked around. “I just… fuck.” His eyes shifted so even more of their whites were exposed. 

“You’re going to be fine.” He tried not to sound too caring. They weren’t allowed to sound caring around each other. Even if all they had _was_ each other. “I know that place like the back of my hand.” Heh, bullshit. “You just have to follow my lead, and you’ll be just fine. Look,” he continued when Simmons released a soft whine, “I’ll even be-- and this is going to kill me-- _productive_ so we can live. I’ll make sure we get settled and shit. As soon as we’re comfortable, I’m going back to my lazy ways, and you can be as much of a dumbass nerd as you want.”

Simmons watched him for a good five seconds. Then he sighed. “Fine. We’re in this together. Do you know where the nearest… mortal area, or whatever, is?”

“First of all, stop labeling things as ‘mortal.’ Mortals don’t even know weredogs and werewolves exist, so that’s weird as fuck. And second, yes. I think it’s about twelve miles north.” A long-ass walk. God, he was so not up for that. “And third, try not to have another fucking panic attack.”

Simmons glared at him. “Fuck you. Besides, I’m still panicking, so it’ll just be one continuous panic attack.”

“That really doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” He lifted his nose to the air and gave a couple whiffs. “Okay. Um, north is that way,” he said, angling his head to his left. “If we jog, we can--”

“No jogging. We’re walking.”

“I can’t even begin to explain how much I hate you.”

“Kiss my ass, kissass.” With that, he stretched out with a soft groan before starting his walk.

Simmons fell into a natural stride beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bark bark bitch
> 
> This work is inspired by [this](https://redvsblueobsessed.tumblr.com/post/185837532199/red-vs-blue-supernatural-au) amazing post by redvsblueobsessed! 
> 
> wow I probably need a beta now more than ever


	2. Something Old, Something New

Choosing to turn from a wolf into a human or vice versa voluntarily was a bit different than changing involuntarily. One of the benefits, as Grif had learned during his time outside of his wolfpack, was that when the change was voluntary, he got to keep his clothes somehow. He wasn’t the type to ask questions as to how this happened, but it had been quite the relief to learn that his shifts back human included his fucking clothes. One less thing to worry about.

He suspected that Simmons never wore clothes when in human form, seeing as he’d only ever lived in packs. Packs scarcely had the resources to keep items like that, so only the pack leader had that benefit. And that was when the pack leader turned human, which was almost never. Unless they deemed that there was something worth getting from the mortals. 

He also suspected that Simmons would be very embarrassed about the fact that he didn't have clothes and thus do everything he could to avoid turning human.

Best to find out now. “Are you gonna make a million excuses as to why you won’t turn human just to avoid the fact that, if you do, you’ll be naked?”

Simmons sputtered and tripped, falling hard onto his jaw and probably biting his tongue. “I- I don’t- you didn't--”

“Is that a yes?”

Simmons stumbled to his feet and fixed Grif with an indignant glare. Grif wondered if he was a blusher. Then promptly batted that thought from his head. “Shut up,” said Simmons.

“Whatever, man.” They weren’t far from a neighborhood now -- Grif could hear the tell-tale sound of children shouting. “You stay dog until we find you some clothes, okay?” And until Grif found a good safe for Simmons to crack.

Simmons stopped. “Wait, you’re going to--”

“Turn human? Duh. And you’re going to pretend to be my pet dog.”

“Wait-- I mean, you used to live with mortals, right? Why don’t you ask some of them--”

“No,” Grif interrupted before Simmons could carry that train of thought any further. Then he had a thought. “Okay, maybe I know somewhere we can go, that way you can maybe get some clothes and maybe I don’t have you rob a bank.”

“Is that… good? What’s a bank?”

Grif sighed, his tail beginning to sway. “Let’s just say I know a guy who got kicked out of his pack a while back. He’s a piece of shit, but he’ll help werewolves and dogs who need it.”

Simmons’ ears perked up. “Like a place for wayward--”

“Stop. Don’t get excited. Sarge is absolutely nothing to get excited about. But… uh, fuck. He’ll give us a place to lay low until we figure something else out. Chances are we’ll have to do something ridiculous in return, though.”

“Define ridiculous.”

“I dunno. Murder someone?”

“What! I’m not going to--”

“Jesus Christ, Simmons.” He shouldered him. “I was fucking with you. Don’t worry about it. One step at a time.”

Simmons shook his head. “People who take things one step at a time are just bad at thinking ahead. Coming up with a plan would be--”

“Boring as fuck. No. No plans. We’re going to show up, he’s going to tell me to fuck off, and you’re going to kiss his ass.”

Simmons’ mouth drew back in a smile. “That’s a plan.”

“Fuck you. No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You know what? I don’t give a shit.” The buildings past the forest edge were peaking into view, so it was now or never. He didn't let himself overthink it. “In case you didn't know, I won’t be able to understand you while I’m human, so just stay close, and don’t… bite anyone.”

Before he could hear Simmons’ inevitable snappish reply, he transformed.

The clothes were fairly normal and still fit (thank God). An orange hoodie over faded jeans. Plus, they were relatively clean.

He looked down at Simmons.

Simmons was staring back up at him, green eyes wide. His tail was doing a small wag for whatever reason. 

Grif took a deep breath. Now was not the time to think about his appearance, about the fact that Simmons was seeing him as a fucking human and-- “Right. Let’s go.”

He maneuvered their walk so they’d approach the street unnoticed.

As soon as they were on it (and he’d directed Simmons to walk on his left side rather than in the middle of the fucking road), children turned their heads and noticed them.

“Dog!” one shouted.

Kids were so annoying.

They ran over to Grif. Simmons was frozen next to him.

“Can we pet him?” the girl asked, swaying forward as she stared at Simmons.

Simmons took a step back. 

“Be good, Simmons,” Grif muttered from the corner of his mouth. Besides, this was pretty fucking funny. “Just be nice. He gets anxious around new people.”

They cheered, and Simmons made an annoyed sound.

The girl began stroking one hand along Simmons’ skull, her touch pointedly gentle. “He is a very tall dog, Mister,” she informed him, her voice coming out a bit slurred.

It was true. Even if Grif had been taller than him, Simmons probably stood over two-and-a-half feet. “He is pretty tall.” And lanky. And cute.

“Does he like butt scratches?” asked one boy.

Grif gave him a wicked grin and pointedly didn't look at Simmons. “Why don’t you find out?”

“Bow-wroh-woah,” said Simmons.

“Be nice,” Grif shot back to whatever the fuck Simmons just said.

The boy began to approach Simmons’ side, and Simmons looked a half-second from bolting. The last kid was just staring at Simmons with a mixture of awe and mild fear. 

“John! Jensen! Charles! Leave that poor man and his dog alone!”

The boy who’d been staring and the girl turned to the voice automatically. “We asked first!” Jensen called back. “He’s a nice dog!”

The final boy pulled his hand back, also looking at the woman who’d been yelling. “Hi, Ms. Kimball!”

Kimball’s hair was pulled back in a messy bun with stray hairs tucked behind her ears. Her dark skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat. She jogged out to the street, a sympathetic smile on her face. “Sorry about that. I’m babysitting a whole bunch of kids. They weren’t bothering you, were they? They told me they’d stay in the yard--”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” said Grif with a wave of his hand. Talking to mortals felt natural, easy. They always had mundane concerns, unlike the pack which was always… well, always had something important to note. Except for Simmons. He could talk to Simmons about anything. “Simmons can handle a couple kids.”

“Simmons?” She lifted an eyebrow. “Interesting name.” Then she stuck out a hand. “I’m Vanessa Kimball. Haven’t seen you around before.”

He shook it. He could feel Simmons watching this exchange, probably curious and taking too many mental notes. He was ignoring the way Jensen continued to stroke his head. “I’m Dexter Grif. Not from around here -- just thought he could use the walk.”

Half of her mouth quirked up. “Right. What type of dog is he? Looks like a Scottish Deerhound.”

What the fuck was a Scottish Deerhound? “You’re exactly right,” he said.

She hummed. “His red coat looks nice.” She cocked her head. “Except for the mud. Did he roll around in it?”

Simmons released an indignant snort and circled to Grif’s other side, away from Jensen.

“You know it,” said Grif. “I’ll, uh, head on home. He gets anxious when he’s around other people for too long. It was nice meeting you, Kimball.”

She dipped her head in a nod. “Nice meeting you too, Grif.”

“Thanks for letting me pet your dog!” said Jensen.

He gave her a small smile. “No problem. Say ‘bye,’ Simmons.”

Simmons’ head snapped to him. Then snapped back to Jensen. “Whoo-rye,” he said.

The kids lost their fucking shit.

“That sounded like good-bye ohmygod!”

“That dog can talk! Holy shit!”

Vanessa glared down at that kid. “Language, Charles.”

“Sorry, Ms. Kimball.”

Grif gave a quick wave and began his trek anew, Simmons making annoyed, muttery sounds beside him. 

Once they were out of earshot, “That was fucking hilarious.”

Simmons barked at him.

“Yeah, I don’t know what you’re saying. Sarge isn’t too far from here, though, so don’t worry your pretty little head.”

Simmons babbled some more. What a fucking idiot.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he told Simmons.

The weredog’s tail started wagging in earnest.

Grif rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Mortals aren’t evil like Hammer always said. Is that it?”

Simmons didn't bother attempting a reply, instead sticking his nose in the air as he walked and taking deep whiffs of everything. His front two paws lifted higher on each step as he did this, making him look like he was strutting.

Grif couldn’t help the grin that slid onto his face. Maybe being kicked out of his pack with this nerd wasn’t so bad.

\----

Sarge’s place was about seven blocks away from where Grif and Simmons first arrived. Needless to say, he was so fucking done by the time they got there. Neither of them had eaten in for-fucking-ever; albeit, Grif _had_ eaten quite a bit yesterday morning.

Still. That was yesterday. Today was now.

The place looked the same as years prior, which more-or-less put any latent worries that Sarge had moved to bed. The three-story building stood as rickety as ever, its red exterior starting to fade in pallor.

“Here goes nothing,” he said, and pushed the door open.

It was unlocked because of course it was.

Even still, he wasn’t exactly surprised when he was immediately greeted by the sound of a shotgun cocking. 

Grif put up his hands. “Yo.”

Sarge was standing in front of him, white hair ruffled and sticking up a bit at the sides in a fashion that made him look a bit Old Man Logan. His gray eyes narrowed. “Gimme one good reason not to shoot you, dirtbag.”

Grif put his hands down. “Yeah, I got nothing.”

Sarge rumbled something under his breath.

Simmons growled.

Sarge perked up instantly. “A Red!” he exclaimed. “I s’pose that’s acceptable.” He let the shotgun fall to a rest against his shoulder. “Friend of yours?” 

“Um…” He flicked his eyes between Sarge and Simmons. “Would him being my friend be considered good or bad?”

“Fair point.” He grunted.

Simmons shifted his footing, looking up at Grif curiously.

“He a weredog?” asked Sarge, squatting down a bit to examine Simmons. 

“Yeah. We, uh, sorta got kicked out of our pack. I thought you may be able to… uh….” He trailed off there, not entirely sure how to continue. He didn't really want to ask for help, especially from Sarge of all people.

Sarge’s eyes narrowed. “It was only a matter of time before your lazy behind got yourself in trouble! Damn shame you brought that trouble to a Red.”

“What the fuck is with you and Reds?” asked Grif. When Sarge opened his mouth, Grif quickly interrupted, “Nevermind -- I don’t want to know.”

Sarge harrumphed. “Well, what is it you want?”

Relief flooded through him. Sarge may have been a bitter old man, but he usually did the right thing. Well, right-ish. Was helping Grif really the right thing to do? “Simmons here needs clothes. And, uh, anything else you can offer for now.”

Sarge studied him. Grif made sure not to squirm. Then, “You know where everything is. Stay as long as you need. But no eating all the food,” he added, jabbing a finger at Grif. “I’ll set up routines once the two of you are settled.”

‘Routines’ probably being those ridiculous patrols for ‘Blues’ and ‘spies’ and ‘vampires’ -- which didn't even fucking exist. Grif kind of wanted to know where Sarge got the money to keep this place running, but asking questions would only lead to absurd answers.

He should’ve just gotten Simmons to rob a bank. “Right. Routines.” He waved a hand. “C’mon, Simmons.”

Simmons looked to Sarge. “Rhoo-oo,” he said.

Sarge lifted his chin. “You’re welcome, son.”

Simmons gave a hesitant wag as Grif tried to determine if Sarge had actually understood Simmons or if he had just been guessing. Probably the latter.

Grif took a breath and started toward where he knew the stairs to be, hearing Simmons trot on after him. Maybe being here would be better than staying with a pack, after all.


	3. Old Dogs and New Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif and Simmons meet Donut while Church tries to figure out his roommate situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the wonderful [redvsblueobsessed](https://redvsblueobsessed.tumblr.com/) for helping make this AU possible!

Weredogs and wolves had filtered in and out of Sarge’s temporary housing before, so Grif wasn’t too surprised when, as soon as he and Simmons reached the top of the stairs, a man walked out from a room on the right.

“Oh!” he said, looking a bit startled. He had blond hair, the ends of which had been dyed pink, and some scarring on the left side of his face. It looked recent. A neatly trimmed beard lined his jaw. “Sorry! I didn't see you there!”

The man had a muscular frame, much of it exposed given he was just wearing a pink tank top and shorts. Unbidden, the image of a small, fluffy dog came to Grif’s mind. “Weredog?” he said, voice disinterested. Simmons was still by his feet, waiting for Grif to move on forward.

The man blinked. “Weredog--? oh! Right! No, not me,” he said with a wave of his hand and slightly disarming smile. “Is that what he is?” he continuing, voice slipping into a coo.

Wait. Fuck. Oh, shit. Was this guy just some mortal staying in one of the rooms? “Dog!” he said, his voice pitching higher than intended. He cleared his throat. “Um, Scottish Deerhound. Y’know.”

The man put his hands under his chin. “Very pretty!” He started a bit. “I never introduced myself!” He stuck out a hand. “Franklin Delano Donut! I’m a fairy. I was run out of my group, and Sarge offered me a place to stay! He’s a lovely man.”

“Fairy?” And also, _Donut_?

“A bit gruff, but I expect no less from a werewolf!” Donut continued, unfazed by Grif’s question or the fact that he hadn’t taken that hand.

“What do you mean by fairy?” Grif interrupted.

Donut’s smile faded a bit. “Well, I…” He glanced down at Simmons and back up to Grif. “Are you not a werewolf?”

“Fairies aren’t real,” Grif said instead of offering an answer.

Simmons sat with a small huff.

“What! It’s true,” he insisted.

“Now, now,” said Donut, “no need to be so _stoic_ in your beliefs--”

“Why did you emphasize stoic?”

“--but I can just… show you?”

Grif narrowed his eyes and took a step back. Simmons stuck out a paw, hitting it against Grif’s leg in what may have been an attempt to warn him away from falling back down the stairs. “Um, dude, hate to tell you, but I’m not into exhibitionism.”

Donut cocked his head, a politely confused smile forming. “Um… sorry?”

Oh, fuck. He’d wildly misunderstood that, then. “What are you going to show me?” There. That was a fairly safe response.

Donut closed his eyes, and Grif started to get worried again.

Then he outstretched his arms, and something else outstretched with them.

Donut opened one eye. 

Grif was gaping. “Holy _shit_. You have _wings_?”

It was a stupid question, seeing as Grif was definitely staring at a pair of iridescent wings outstretched from somewhere along Donut’s spine. They twitched a bit.

Donut opened his other eye, humbly sheepish. “I did say I was a fairy.”

“I didn't think you meant it like that!” he rebuked.

“Well, how else would I mean it?”

Simmons released a sharp bark, startling both Donut and Grif. “What the fuck!” said Grif.

Simmons was sniffing intently, tail swishing low and fast.

Grif rolled his eyes. “He’s geeking out,” he explained when Simmons padded around Donut, nose mere centimeters away from hitting those wings.

“So he is a weredog?”

“Yep,” Grif said, popping the ‘p.’ “Technically I didn't lie.”

“Oh, I don’t mind! He looks like quite the handsome one,” Donut said, flapping his wings once when Simmons had stopped moving. “But you’ve never met a fairy before?”

“I-- no. Can’t say I have. This is pretty fucking weird, if I’m being honest.” Grif crossed his arms. “But Sarge knew?”

“Oh, he’s wonderful! That’s one werewolf you can count on,” said Donut, pretending not to notice as Simmons gave an inquisitive, not-as-stealthy-as-he-thought lick. “And he was fairly surprised, too! He accused me of being a vampire in disguise, for some reason.” He shook his head. “But I had it on good authority that Sarge was the person to come to after getting kicked out. Is that why the two of you are here? Kicked out for your preferences for each other?”

Grif lifted his eyebrow. “Preferences for--?” And then it hit him, and he was immediately thankful that blushes didn't show on his skin. “N- no. Not. That. We aren’t a couple, nope. I just ate the whole winter supply of food and Simmons followed me out, basically.”

Donut’s eyes twinkled mischievously, and everything Grif learned about what conniving, manipulative, teasing assholes fairies could be from Shakespeare’s plays hit him in the head like a brick. He needed to put a stop to this. “We’re not a couple,” he repeated, a bit more firmly.

“Right.” Donut dipped his head in a nod. “Of course. My mistake. Though I suppose it was silly of me to think wolfpacks were as closed-minded as fairy dens!” He slapped the butt of his palm against his forehead. “You all are usually more progressive, if Sarge is any indication!”

Um, Grif had no idea, but he was not about to get into this conversation with some dude he just met who also happened to be a fairy in all senses of the word. “Sure.” He frowned. “Wait, where did Simmons--”

A tall, lean redhead came barrelling out of a room wearing a shirt about three sizes too big and pants that didn't quite reach the ankles of his long legs. “OkayIhavesomanyquestionslikecanyouactuallyusethosetoflyfunctionallyordotheyservesomeotherpurposebecause maybeyou’relikebeesbecausebeessomehowflyeventhoughtheyshouldn’tandyoulooklikeyoushouldn’tbeabletobutmaybeyoucan alsowhataretheymadeofbecausethosearemoregossamerthananyanimalI’veeverseenandIknowlotsofanimals andweretheyjustinvisibleearlierbecauseIdon’tseeanyholesinyourshirtforwingsandifnotwhereweretheyandhowdidyouhidethemand--”

Holy shit.

That was Simmons.

Simmons was _hot_.

In a nerdy, Irish, totally-just-bros way.

Grif caught himself staring. Simmons didn't seem to notice, still rambling on about God-knows-what as Donut grew increasingly more confused.

Inevitably, Simmons was going to realize he was acting like a fucking idiot. Grif desperately wanted to see that exact moment unfold. For purely innocent reasons.

“--andifit’sanythingliketransformingfromweredogtohumanI’llneedtorunsometeststoseethesciencebehinditbecauseitdoesn’tmakesensebutitwillifIstudyitenoughand-- oh.”

He was a blusher.

It was adorable.

In a… well, in a he’s-fucking-adorable way.

Simmons padded a few steps back on his bare feet. “Um!” he squeaked.

Donut tilted his head and chuckled. “You _are_ handsome!”

Simmons’ face turned impossibly redder. “I-- sorry! I- I wasn’t thinking and I just-- sorry!”

“Don’t worry!” said Donut. “I understand your curiosity, seeing as you’ve never met a fairy before.” He winked then, and Simmons’ eyes went wide. “Though I would appreciate if you don’t touch my wings without asking -- they’re quite sensitive!”

“Right!” Simmons’ eyes then slid to Grif’s. The blush spread to his ears. “Um.”

He hadn’t said anything yet. “So you do look like a nerd,” he drawled. 

Simmons scowled. “Fuck you, Grif.”

“Grif and Simmons!” Donut quipped. “Those are two names I’ll remember.”

“What’s _that_ mean?” said Simmons.

“Nothing!” Donut waved a hand. “Absolutely nothing.”

“You need clothes that actually fit,” said Grif. “And underwear, probably.”

“Stop talking!” Simmons yelped.

Donut was chuckling. “Nice meeting you boys.” His wings flapped once more, and suddenly they were out of sight. “I have places to be, so you two have fun while I’m gone!”

He was gone in a flurry.

Grif was left standing there like an idiot.

He did, however, note that he was still taller than Simmons.

Simmons was staring at him.

When Grif opened his mouth to ask why, Simmons blinked and straightened his spine. “Uh, I guess I can ask Donut if I can run tests later. Maybe I can run tests on myself in the meantime? I’d need equipment, of course, and uh, I doubt… Sarge has it. Ahem.”

Simmons was definitely still flustered. “Right. We just met a fucking fairy.”

Simmons’ eyes flitted to the left and back to Grif. “Uh, that we did.”

Grif shook his head. “What a fucking day. We’re going to be living with a fucking fairy because those fucking exist. What’s next? A fucking ghost?”

Simmons scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Grif. Ghosts can’t exist.”

“Yeah? Tell me how I keep my clothes when I transform.”

Simmons’ face did a thing Grif wasn’t familiar with because this was a human face. He’d have to learn the expressions on this one, too, and figure out what each little movement meant. An entertaining prospect. “Shut up,” Simmons said after several moments’ hesitation.

“Sure thing.” He sauntered forward. “I’m gonna see if my old room is open. Also,” he said, pausing, “don’t take clothes from… from wherever, whenever. That’s not a thing people do. Like, don’t be taking Donut’s shit, or the shit of anyone else who may or may not be living here.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Simmons defended. “I was planning on putting the clothes back.”

“You’re a complete fucking idiot,” Grif deadpanned. “Fuck -- I’m gonna have to explain some shit to you. Just- fucking- follow me, and listen, okay? Ugh, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Except he really could because Simmons could get him to do a lot of things he wouldn’t exactly like to admit to.

Simmons scowled but otherwise offered no complaint.

“Cool,” said Grif. He continued his stroll to his room. “Rule number one: the real world isn’t a pack. People operate under an individualist society rather than a community-minded one.” He pushed open the door to test if this one was also unlocked. It was. Grif peered inside. Looked like nobody was home. “That means borrowing doesn’t always fly. You have to ask first. Otherwise, you’re stealing.”

“ _Grif_ ,” said Simmons, “I fucking know what stealing is. I was going to return the clothes _before_ the person noticed. So kind of stealing. More like borrowing without permission. But yeah. Not an idiot.”

Simmons would never have done such a thing in the pack. Grif took in this fact and turned it around in his head. “So you don’t mind stealing… if you don’t know who you’re stealing from?”

He noticed -- not because he was paying close attention, just because he sometimes noticed things -- that Simmons’ walk was a bit awkward. Robotic. He really was unfamiliar with using his human body.

“I’m-- I didn't--” Simmons frowned. “Um. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Oh, that was fucking _perfect_. “Good to know,” he said.

“Huh? Hey, don’t assume I’ll start stealing shit for you! Sarge telling you not to take extra rations is the same as him telling me. I’m going to respect what he tells us, unlike you!”

“Oh, fuck. You’re gonna start kissing Sarge’s ass now.”

“You know what, Grif? I hate you.”

Grif smirked. “Yeah, enough to have gotten yourself kicked out of the pack with me.” He sounded far more confident than he felt. “So much hate there.”

Simmons muttered under his breath and fiddled with his shirt but otherwise offered no rebuke.

Grif did his best to put out the flame of hope before it spread too fast.

\---------

Church was fucking sick of people moving into the place he’d more-or-less claimed as his own.

Sure, it wasn’t like he owned a lease or anything, but that didn't make it any less his. Random strangers off the street never pulled this kind of shit on anyone else, so he wasn’t exactly sure what the big idea was.

Doyle, the guy who called himself the landlord and kept encouraging people to move in, was currently showing around a young couple as Church leered at them from the corner of the living room. “It is a great place for first-time renters,” he said, gesturing broadly as the fairly sparse room. “The furniture you see comes with the place, so there’s a few things off your list!” Doyle chuckled to himself as the couple smiled thinly and nodded. “It’s a two bedroom, one bath. The kitchen is a little tight, but it’s better than most you’d find at this price!”

“Right,” said the woman, brushing her dirty blonde hair over her shoulder. “Why _is_ this place so cheap, anyway? The other listings for places that are, like, exactly the same are 200 more a month.”

Doyle’s smile faltered. “Uh--”

“It’s probably because of that place across the street,” said her boyfriend, wrinkling his nose. “It’s awful! It’s like that old man lets _anyone_ into those apartments!”

Church rolled his eyes.

Doyle clapped his hands together. “Now, now -- Sarge is a lovely man once you get to know him! He simply like to take care of folks -- he actually helps to keep crime down in this area, I hear!”

Oh, that was such fucking bullshit. The woman obviously smelled it, if the way her lips pulled into an unimpressed frown was any indication.

The man scoffed. “Sure, but that’s not what I was talking about.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “He let one of those… _flamboyant_ types in there.” At Doyle’s blank look, he continued, “One with the, y’know… alternative lifestyle.”

Church narrowed his eyes. Was he trying to--

“You mean gay?” said Doyle.

The man shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “That’s what it looked like.”

“Gary,” said the woman, elbowing him in the ribs, “stop being a dick. Besides,” she looked back to Doyle, “you never really answered my question.”

Doyle cleared his throat. When he spoke again, he still sounded a bit hoarse, “People say this place is haunted.” He glanced to the man and back again. “It very much is! Probably not the place for you. In fact, I’ll end this tour right here--”

Church was ready to relax when Gary waved a hand. “Nonsense! Ghosts are bullshit. If that’s the reason for the price difference, I’d say that’s stupid, but good for us.”

Church threw his head back and groaned. “Please,” he moaned, “get the fuck out, you homophobic shit.”

They ignored him. The woman pressed on. “Did somebody die on the premises?”

“Er, not that we know of, but--”

“Great.” She clapped her hands together. “Then let’s continue this tour, shall we?”

Oh, fuck. He didn't want these people living with him.

“I feel I must tell you,” said Doyle, who was also starting to sweat, “but none of our other renters ever lasted longer than two months.”

“They weren’t us, Doyle,” said Gary, placing a hand on Doyle’s shoulder.

“Um, of course not.” 

Yeah, Church was going to have to put a stop to this. Even Doyle didn't want this asshole.

He’d tried tolerating people in the past -- really. Two months of their stay may not show it, but people walking around and acting like you don’t even exist is bound to get on one’s nerves after a short while. Sure, it was understandable -- he was a motherfucking _ghost_ , after all -- but still.

With a small, unnecessary sigh, he walked into the kitchen behind the couple.

Gary was eyeing the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter.

Church concentrated. He needed to focus -- these people were _not_ going to live here if he had any say in it.

Then he swept his arm across the counter, knocking the bowl and its contents to the floor.

Gary jumped backward, tripping over his feet and falling onto his ass. The woman shrieked in surprise, launching herself behind Doyle.

Doyle sighed. It looked like it may have been in relief.

“Um, right!” said Gary, picking himself up and swiping away at the invisible dust. “That was… certainly something! Just a draft, I presume!”

Oh, _God_. He had to be fucking kidding. That was the kind of crap Church could pull to easily scare the shit out of people.

Whatever. He didn't have any qualms with stepping it up a notch.

He shook out his arms and rotated his head. It was always easier to do that stuff when he was pissed off, and at this point, he was mostly just annoyed. 

Okay. He could do this. Gary was an asshole and deserved to piss himself.

Doyle had bent over and was picking up the fallen fruit. “Please come on,” he was murmuring, the sound barely perceptible to Church’s ears. “You are always a pain in the rear -- do something.”

Church scoffed and crossed his arms. “You do realize you can just do something yourself, right?” he said.

Doyle glanced around anxiously, squinting. 

“Fucking-- yeah. I’ll try,” he said. He looked back to Gary.

“I think this is a decent size,” said Gary. His voice wavered a bit as he attempted to casually lean against the counter. “Could, uh, definitely cook in here.”

“Yup!” Doyle squeaked. 

Church acted.

He extended his arms and attempted to shove Gary to the floor.

He went right through.

“Oh, fuck me!” he yelled, whipping back around.

“Is that all the ghostly-bullshit people talk about? Bowls falling to the floor?”

Doyle stood up with the bowl. “Er, a bit more than that! Dropping bowls is relatively mild for this character.” He set down the bowl and put a hand to his hair. 

The woman lifted a brow. “So what else does it do?” she asked.

Church snarled and strolled in front of her, “Don’t call me _it_ ,” he growled.

She blinked. “What the _fuck_? Gary, did you hear that?”

Oh. She heard him. Nice.

Gary looked a little pale. “Um, yeah. I… heard something. Probably just an idiot neighbor messing around!”

“You son of a--” Church wheeled around and kicked.

He felt his foot connect with something -- that something being Gary’s shin -- and suddenly Gary was jumping in circles and yelping in pain.

Church immediately started laughing.

The woman screamed.

Doyle’s eyes rolled back just before he fainted.

Church cursed because, for all his complaints, Doyle was actually a pretty nice man. He tried to catch him before his head hit the floor. It wasn’t much of a surprise that he went right through.

“Fuck.”

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” the woman was saying, looking around the room. “Something was talking, oh God. Look what it did to Doyle!”

“Not my fault,” he said, raising a finger. At this point, he doubted they could hear him anymore. That was a rare occasion, in and of itself. So was actually hurting people.

He frowned and examined his hands. Huh. Did ghosts get more powerful with time?

“I think my shin’s broken! Oh, God!” Gary wailed.

“No, it’s not!” the woman retorted. “Stop being a dumbass, and let’s get the fuck out of here! Fuck, should I call an ambulance or--”

Doyle groaned. His eyes flickered open. 

“--not? I don’t give a fuck, let’s move.”

She grabbed Gary’s arm and immediately hauled ass, ignoring Gary’s anguished cries along the way.

“Well,” said Doyle, rubbing his head, “that was… something?”

Church crossed his arms. “Y’know, you could’ve just told them you have a thing for Sarge. Gary would’ve run the fuck out immediately.”

Doyle reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. After a second’s examination, he put a hand to his chest. “Oh, goodie. No cracks.”

“Unless you count your head.”

Doyle drew in his knees and wrapped his arms around them, still staring at the screen of his phone. “I do hope the next potential renter is better than them. Oh, but I’d hate for a nice person to be stuck with--” He seemed to remember that Church had been active literal seconds ago and stopped himself. “--Er, sorry, Mr. Ghost. I meant you no offense! I just-- you know, you scare people away! It’s simply… oh, goodness. How I must look, talking to myself like this!”

“People probably already think you’re crazy,” said Church. 

At least Doyle seemed fine. There wasn’t any blood coming from his head, so that was a plus.

“Oh! Do I just come in?” said a voice from the doorway.

Doyle scrambled to his feet. “Oh! Sorry, I-- wasn’t expecting you this early!”

Church turned to see a tall, broad man with floppy brown hair standing there. His wide, blue eyes brought an almost innocent quality to him despite his muscular physique. 

Church tilted his head. Something was… off about him, though. He couldn’t place it.

“Ah, sorry!” the man said, swinging his hands at his sides. “I sometimes mix up times. And days. Uh, those kinds of things.”

Church bit his lip. What was it about this guy? He seemed nice enough, but there was an odd air about him. Maybe it was, like, a sixth-sense ghosts had -- he could detect auras or some shit. 

“That’s not a problem!” said Doyle, putting on a broad smile. “I just, er, happen to be prepared! Come on in! Caboose, was it?”

Caboose gave a fervent nod and stepped inside. Then he put on a small frown and leaned to the side.

Church squinted. It almost looked like Caboose was staring right at him.

“Um,” said Caboose. Then his face brightened suddenly. “You seem nice! Do you live here? We can be best friends!”

“What the fuck,” Church said as Doyle turned around to scan the room. 

“Who is it you’re speaking to?”

Caboose looked back at Doyle. “Him,” he said, like this was obvious, and pointed at Church.

This was a first.

Holy shit.

Holy _shit_.

“You can see me?” he squawked.

Caboose nodded. “Yes, I can see you! I am looking at you right now.”

Doyle began blinking rapidly.

“My name is Michael J. Caboose. What is your name?”

For a second, he blanked. His name. He was a ghost, which meant he’d once been a person, which meant he had a name.

Except he didn't quite remember being a person.

“Leonard Church,” his mouth answered, almost like a reflex.

“Nice to meet you, Leonard Church! Do you like dogs? I like dogs.”

He was still thrown from this whole interaction. “Caboose, I’m a fucking _ghost_. How are you doing this?”

“You’re a ghost? That’s-- that’s very cool, Church! Your last name makes me itchy, but that’s okay! I like that name. It starts with ‘C’, just like mine! I am not a ghost.”

“This is not at all how I was expecting this to go,” said Doyle. 

Church shook his head. “This is too fucking weird.”

Caboose smiled and looked back to Doyle. “I will stay here and Church and I will become best friends.”

Doyle was beginning to look a bit green. “Of… of course. Yes. I’ll just… get the proper paperwork, then.”

This was definitely a new development. “What the fuck just happened?” he asked.

Caboose clapped his hands together. “I am going to rent an apartment with you and it is going to be so much fun!”

Church realized his jaw had been hanging slightly open, and he quickly snapped it shut.

What the hell did he do now?


	4. And They Were Roommates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church wants to know why Caboose can see him, and Caboose wants to have adventures with his new best friend.

Caboose was sitting on the floor, crossing his legs. On his face was a wide grin, highlighted by his deep blue eyes. 

Church frowned, crossed his arms, and examined them closer. The color was almost too neat, neither shadows nor lights glinting off of them. “What are you?” he asked. “Are you a ghost, too? A really old one who can--”

“Nope!” He shook his head in an exaggerated motion. “Guess again!”

He lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. “Human? Seer?”

Caboose giggled. “No!”

So not human. He could… theoretically work with that. Church existed, which meant ghosts existed, which probably meant--

Wait.

He let his gaze wander, trying to pull back the tendril of a memory that chased him then. 

_“What do you mean--!”_

_“Were you lying? Why would you--”_

_“That isn’t possible. It isn’t… You can’t--”_

Something grabbed him.

He gasped, feeling electricity spark through him in a pulse. “Wh- what--”

Caboose was staring at him, eyes wide with worry. “Church! Are you okay?”

“Uh,” he said, blinking. He looked at where Caboose’s hands were gripping his shoulders. Looked back up. Rather than answering the question, revisiting those moments of desperate shouts and _feeling_ , “You’re touching me.”

Caboose was significantly taller than him, which, given his height, was no small feat. Even still, he seemed to shrink back, looking small as he bit down on his lip and glanced to the side. He let go. “Um, because you’re basically alive to me.”

That didn't explain anything. “Caboose, what the fuck,” he said plainly. 

Technically, they’d been roommates for… three hours? Maybe? Doyle had still been in some state of shock when he’d given Caboose all the forms, which Caboose filled out with a glitter pen he’d summoned from somewhere. The apartment was sparse of any food -- in fact, Caboose apparently had nothing to bring to his new place with him. It was objectively weird.

“What the _actual_ fuck?” he repeated.

Caboose sighed. “Um, it’s complicated? But we can still be friends! I would like that.”

“What’s complicated, Caboose?”

There was a knock at the door.

Church swore. Caboose brightened. “I’ll get it!” he said, bounding over, previous mood forgotten.

He swung open the door to reveal a woman standing there with a platter in her hands. She straightened fractionally and put on a smile. “Hello,” she said. “I heard that you just moved in. I would’ve come earlier, but I was at a day job and--”

“Ah, don’t worry! I’ve just gotten here!”

She seemed a bit taken aback by his yelling but adjusted quickly. “That’s good. I have a casserole--”

“You can come in, if you’d like!” said Caboose, leaning forward onto his toes.

“Oh! Um, sure.”

He moved to give her space to walk in before shutting the door behind her. Church watched as she noted the area, eyes lingering on the windows and closed doors. “It’s… quaint,” she said before setting the casserole on the counter and looking back.

“Yes! It is perfect for me and Church.”

“Church?”

“My best friend! And roommate.”

Church rolled his eyes as the woman nodded. “Well, my name is Vanessa Kimball. I live next door. Doyle and I are… sort of friends, so if you need anything and he’s not here, let me know.” She smirked slightly. “I’ll make sure he takes care of it.”

Church released an amused snort at that. 

Kimball’s eyes flicked over to where he was standing before looking back to Caboose. He… didn't think she’d seen him. Did she hear him?

“Oh, that’s--! That’s very nice of you to do,” said Caboose. “My name is Michael J. Caboose, and I met Doyle earlier today!”

“Yeah. Did he tell you about--” She stopped, blinking. Then she made up her mind and continued, “I’ve heard from some people that they think a ghost stays here.”

Caboose nodded fervently. “Yes! He’s a very nice ghost.”

Kimball’s face turned briefly unreadable before she gave a small grin. “That’s good. So… Caboose, was it?”

“Oh! Oh, yes. That is my name, yes.”

Suspicious as fuck, but Kimball seemed to let it slide. “Right. What is it you do? Are you new to the area?”

“Yes! I am new. I don’t do anything, um. I live here.” He glanced to the side anxiously. “Um, what do you do?”

“Well, I also live here,” she said in a good-natured tone that caused some of the worry Church hadn’t noticed he had to slip away. “But I also babysit and teach self-defense.”

Caboose perked up. “That sounds fun!”

“Well, the self-defense classes are open to anyone,” Kimball continued. “If you want, you can stop by and check it out. First training is free, just so you can get a feel of it.”

Caboose clapped. “Yes! Church and I will come.”

“I’m gonna what?” Church drawled.

Kimball blinked but held her gaze steady to Caboose. “I’d love to see you there. I’ll just…” she said, digging her hand into her pocket, “give you my card.” She held it out. Caboose grabbed it tenderly. “Weekly adult training is on Saturday at nine A.M. I look forward to meeting your roommate then.”

Thankfully, Caboose didn't make a dumb comment like, “But he’s right here!” Instead he just beamed, eyes flicking over the card.

“I’ll… see you around. Nice to meet you, Caboose.”

He looked back up and waved. “Nice to meet you, too, Kimball!”

She walked out the door with one final grin goodbye.

“Well,” Church said once she was out of earshot, “that went surprisingly well for you.”

“Thank you!” 

“Wasn’t a compliment.” He glanced around, eyes snagging on the casserole. “So, are you gonna put that in the fridge or what?”

Caboose’s face contorted in confusion. “Fridge?”

Church lifted a brow. “Yeah. Refrigerator. Fridge.”

Caboose gave him a blank stare.

“Oh my fucking God,” said Church.

Caboose winced.

“What the _fuck_? Why’d you wince? And how the fuck do you not know what a fridge is?”

“Um, well, you see…” Caboose looked to his feet. “It’s, um. I’m. Um.” He took a deep breath. “I’m a demon.”

“Bullshit,” Church replied automatically. He replayed the statement over in his head again and contrasted it against Caboose’s past behaviors. “Bullshit,” he repeated.

“It’s true,” said Caboose. He looked pitiful, and not at all like a demon. “I was told to, um, leave for a while. Yeah. Apparently I did something wrong.”

“Did something wrong for a demon?” Church said, voice pitching high. “How bad is that?”

“Oh. No. Not bad. That was the problem, I think? They said I was very nice and that I should go.”

Church searched Caboose’s face for any indication that he was lying. He found none. “Holy crap,” he said. “You’re a fucking demon.”

“Yes.”

“I’m a ghost, and you’re a demon, and we’re roommates.”

“Um. Yes?”

Church shook his head and lifted his hands. “Why the fuck is this happening to me?”

Caboose shrugged. “Maybe so we could meet and become best friends?”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s it.”

Leave it to Church to find the most lame-ass demon possible.

Caboose lifted his chin suddenly. “We can go on adventures together!”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

“We can go to Kimball’s self-defense, which will be so much fun, and then we can pet puppies and solve crime and--”

“Caboose, I’m fucking begging you. Shut the fuck up.”

“It will be so much fun!”

Church brought the butt of his palm to his forehead. “Caboose, I’m still a ghost. I can barely knock over a bowl of fruit on a good day, let alone leave this fucking place to-- to go on _adventures_ with you.” Adventures with a fucking demon. Christ. “You’re the only person who can see me, anyway. Find some other fucking idiot to hang out with.”

Caboose looked taken aback. “But we are friends.”

Church glowered at him. “We met four hours ago. I’m dead, and you’re… you’re apparently a demon. So.”

“I do not understand.”

“Fucking-- Caboose, I…” He didn't know why he was doing this. He also didn't know why it was hard. “We can’t be friends,” he stated firmly.

“That’s okay,” said Caboose. “We can be best friends.”

“Goddammit.”

“And I don’t care if I’m the only one who sees you! Besides, um, maybe I can help people see you?”

Church’s heart stopped.

Well, it felt like it did.

His mind drifted back to Caboose’s hands on his shoulders, grounding him, connecting them, making him feel something he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before. “You can do that?”

He hated how he sounded, hated the way the words came out in a desperate whisper. Caboose didn't seem to mind.

“Um, maybe? I can try! Sometimes I just have to try and things and, uh… yeah, they work out. I am very lucky.”

That sounded counterintuitive for a demon. Church briefly wondered if maybe Caboose just thought he was a demon but actually wasn’t. Seemed likely. “Can you… can you still touch me?”

He ignored how weird that sounded.

So did Caboose. “I’ll check!” Then he lunged forward, wrapped his arms around Church’s midsection, and hauled him into the air.

Church yelped and kicked his legs out as Caboose swung him in a circle. “Yes! I can hug you!”

“Caboose! Put me down!”

“You are very huggable!”

“For fuck’s sake, Caboose!”

\----

“A trial run?” said Caboose, pitching his voice in a way that suggested he was trying to imitate Church.

Church had gotten Caboose to put the remaining fruit and the casserole in the refrigerator after explaining at length what a refrigerator did. And after Caboose had spent several minutes hugging him, carrying him around like he was no heavier than that fucking casserole.

Church planted himself a solid five yards away from Caboose after that incident. “Yes. A trial run. You try… whatever it is you think will get people to see me, and we… we see if they actually do.” 

This was his dumbest fucking plan yet.

Admittedly, his only other plan was (and had been for fucking _ever_ ) to do nothing. Just stay in the apartment and see who came in and out. Scare them away. Have a laugh. Accept the fact that meaningful connections were impossible because he was intangible to them in all the ways that really mattered.

“Oh. Like… take you for a walk?”

“I’m not a dog, Caboose. But yeah. That’s the idea.”

Caboose swung his arms forward excitedly. Church retreated a step just in case. “Oh, yes! We can go outside and be together and explore and--”

“It’s just a trial run, Caboose. Don’t get too excited.”

Caboose nodded gravely. “Yes. Not too excited. Trial run. I’ve got it.” He looked to the door and back to Church. “Um, so do I just try something and we see if it works?”

“Er, yes?”

“Okay. I want to see if people can see you when I’m touching you.”

Church took yet another step back, putting himself inside the couch. Caboose looked vaguely intrigued by this. “You aren’t going to--” He cut himself off, reconsidering his options. “You can give me a piggy-back ride,” he said.

Caboose was shaking in his excitement. Church couldn’t possibly conceive why Caboose liked him this much. “Yes I would like that I think that would work yes.”

Church snorted. “Yeah, you’re definitely not too excited.”

Caboose grinned before squatting down. “Let’s go!”

Would his head smack into the doorframe if he went out on Caboose’s shoulders? He wasn’t sure how he’d interact with objects around him in that state, but it’d be better not to test it. “How about we step outside first?”

“Oh!” Caboose jumped back up. “Yes! Ah, you- you’re so smart, Church!” His voice hiccuped when he said Church’s name. 

Caboose promptly ran to the door and threw it open before stepping outside. 

Church sighed and followed, walking over to the threshold. 

Before he went outside, he stopped.

He… he’d never actually been outside before.

Why hadn’t he…?

Church blinked, and a soft sound escaped his throat. He cleared it. “Um.”

Caboose tilted his head and opened his mouth before snapping it back shut.

Church lifted his left hand. Examined it. Doyle said he didn't die in that apartment, so why was he there? Why couldn’t he remember anything but it?

Outside suddenly seemed overwhelming. Bustling people living their lives, traveling from one place to the next, each with a whole universe playing out in their heads, each reaching out somehow and connecting with other people because they were _alive_ and could breathe and eat and drink and be seen and heard and touch things and move things and

Church clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He was fine. That didn't matter to him. He was Leonard Church, and those things didn't bother him.

He stepped outside.

Nothing pulled him back. He didn't feel anything. Outside was the same as inside. 

Church finally met Caboose’s gaze. Caboose’s eyes flashed red in the sun. “Oh,” Church said.

Caboose furrowed his eyebrows. “Yes? Are you okay?”

Caboose’s eyes dropped to shadow, returning to the shade of blue. 

“Yeah,” said Church, blinking. “Let’s give this a shot.”


	5. The Heads That Bind Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dullahans were of a sort once feared by many.

Dullahans were of a sort once feared by many.

Legends were written and told about them, spread amongst children like wildfire, adapted into new forms to fit the modern aesthetic. Everyone knew of the Headless Horseman. Those more intimate with his kind knew of his origins.

Dullahans. Riders on dark horses. Precursors to death, to disaster. Forged in battle and left to roam the night, leaving shadows in their wake.

Originally, there were many. They survived on the lips of the same people they often later reaped. People feared them, respected them. Now, people destroyed them. Hunted them for their heads. Hunted them to possess immortality.

Dullahans now survived in herds. They survived by staying out of sight, out of the minds of both those who sought to gain everlasting life and those who believed in a duty to eliminate their kind.

They still held power. Not the same as before, but it existed nonetheless. Despite their fall, despite the need to stay in groups, despite their inability to actually live with ease in modern society, they were still among the most powerful beings in creation.

This was what Lopez told himself as Daithi flung his whip around Lopez’s midsection and threw him off his horse.

He landed hard on the dirt, and his head tumbled from where it had been nestled under the crook of his arm. Instinctively, he went to grab it.

“Don’t,” Daithi’s voice hissed.

Around him, the other riders were motionless, observing.

Lopez snatched his arm back and forced himself upright. He didn't say anything, not yet.

“Was it you.” His tone was flat, knowing.

Lopez felt raw knowing his head was lying in the dirt. Felt vulnerable. He kept his arms still, making sure not to do any sudden movements.

“Well?” Daithi said. “It’s a simple question. Was it you, _Lopez_?”

He knew exactly what Daithi was talking about. They had many points of contention, sure, but Lopez hadn’t actually been up to much of anything lately. Except for one thing. One thing he’d sincerely believed wouldn’t be found out.

“You saw fit,” Daithi continued when Lopez said nothing, “to let a witness go?”

Lopez straightened his stature, drawing back his shoulders. The “witness” had been too inebriated to even think straight. He’d told Lopez that he “had a fine-ass fuckin’ costume, man, holy shiiiiit.” Lopez, as was generally par for his course, huffed, turned his horse around, and walked away. Best to ignore those things. No use killing someone who would inevitably get himself killed later.

“We have rules. You can’t simply ignore them as you see fit -- you’re risking the lives of the rest of us.”

Risking? Hardly. If Lopez were to stroll into any city, he’d bet people would just take pictures, thinking he was a human pulling off some cool trick. They were idiots on a good day. Discovery wasn’t the worst possible course of action because no discoveries would be made. Mortals were sticklers to their beliefs, and if someone like Lopez showed up and challenged them, those same mortals would write it off as something else entirely.

Such as a fine-ass costume.

Daithi spurred his horse forward so he was truly overlooking Lopez. “You’re a disgrace to our kind.”

Lopez knew how to get one thing across to this asshole.

He stuck up a middle finger. “Vete a la mierda, pedazo de mierda que te justificas.” [Fuck off, you self-righteous piece of shit.]

The head in Daithi’s grip snarled, which really went to show how much Lopez pissed him off in that moment. If he actually spoke Spanish, he’d probably be even angrier.

Lopez’s horse seemed anxious, starting to rear back a few anxious steps. In an automatic motion, Lopez switched his hand from the bird to a flat palm.

Daithi didn't like it apparently, throwing his whip out and curling it around Lopez’s wrist before pulling him to his knees and dragging his body forward. Lopez released a curse. The bones dug into Lopez’s wrist as Daithi tightened the whip’s hold. “Do you think it funny?”

He honestly did.

“Sir,” said a new voice, and Lopez immediately knew he was fucked if Cillian was actually speaking up, “with all due respect, this is not his first strike. I… believe it is the fifth time he has let a mortal survive.”

Daithi didn't move. 

Lopez’s chest was heaving.

For all his thoughts on being able to simply walk into a city of mortals, he’d never really… considered the chances of such a thing actually happening.

Dullahans had never abandoned one of their own before.

That being said, Lopez tended to be an exception to the rule.

With a quick strike, Daithi removed the whip from Lopez’s arm and slashed it against his riderless horse. She reared with a deep whinny before taking off, glancing once behind her on the way.

He shifted, his hands tightening to fists. “Ella no sobrevivirá sola.” [She will not survive alone.]

Daithi hooked his whip back to his belt. “We may be few in number, but I believe your life to be a hindrance to our species. I see no reason to keep you alive.” He paused for a moment. Then, “Would you like to give me one?”

Fuck him, and fuck everything he stood for. “Prefiero la muerte, puta.” [I’d prefer death, cockbite.]

“We… should banish him, sir. Killing our own would be… leave his life to fate. He will not make it far. You know that.”

“Puedo hablar por mí, gilipollas,” he growled. [I can speak for myself, asshole.]

“Como si el te entendiera, dada tu maldición,” Cillian shot back. [As if he would understand you, given your curse.]

Daithi grumbled. “Alright. We wish you luck surviving without your stead. Try not to reveal our existence to the mortal kind, will you?”

“Me mataría si te matara a ti también.” [I’d kill myself if it killed you, too.]

“I will take that as an agreement.” Daithi turned to the rest of the group. “Lig dúinn dul amach. Is féidir linn a fheiceáil an bhfuil an Aos Sí maraithe amárach.” [Let us ride out. We can see if the Aos Sí have killed him tomorrow.]

The Aos Sí weren’t active in North America, but Lopez was certainly not about to tell him that.

Daithi’s horse stomped at the ground twice.

“I’ll have you know,” said Daithi, “that I found out that mortal’s name. He, too, is dead.”

Something like anger rose in Lopez’s chest. “Estás mintiendo.” [You’re lying.]

“Andrew Caird,” Daithi drawled. “I made sure to say it nice and slow.”

The fact that Lopez didn't have a spine whip of his own was one of many ongoing disputes he had with Daithi.

Perhaps it was about time he got one.

Before Daithi could react, Lopez launched himself up and at the Dullahan, tackling him off his horse.

Despite his surprise, Daithi maintained a grip on his head, instantly hooking it to his belt because of the attack. The others started to draw their horses closer, but he lifted a hand in warning. “Stop. This is between him and me alone.”

Right. “Bastardo orgulloso.” [Prideful bastard.]

Daithi’s gaze flitted to where Lopez’s head still laid.

Bait. Risky, but it would probably pay off. 

He shifted as though he were going to retrieve it, and sure enough, Daithi lunged for it as well, turning his back to Lopez.

That was all he needed.

He whipped out a leg to send Daithi stumbling before grabbing him by the neck and pulling.

Daithi released a howl of pain as Lopez held the rest of his body in place by planting a single foot on his back, still yanking. Something snapped. “No deberías haberlo matado,” Lopez muttered, making sure Daithi was the only one who could hear. [You shouldn’t have killed him.]

“I don’t even know what you’re--”

Daithi’s voice stopped working the second his spine broke past his skin. He alternated to speaking from his head. “Wh- what do you--! What do you think you’re-- gah!”

Pain was a lot easier to hear when Dullahans spoke with their mouths.

“No deberías haber matado a ninguno de ellos.” [You shouldn’t have killed any of them.]

Lopez savored Daithi’s yells as he ripped out his spine entirely.

Shauna and Morin disobeyed Daithi’s order then -- which, Lopez would admit, was a fair response -- to charge Lopez on their horses, whips out.

Daithi was still screaming, unable to die so long as his head wasn’t destroyed.

It was with a cruel kind of irony that he used Daithi’s spine against those he commanded.

With a slash, Morin was ripped off his horse. Lopez spun around, jumping off Daithi’s body and ducking into a roll toward his head.

Oh, _mierda_.

It was gone.

He turned back to to the other Dullahans. Morin had gathered Daithi in his arms, shifting him back onto his horse. “¿Dónde está?” he hissed. “¿Quien tiene mi cabeza?” [Where is it? Who has my head?]

“You’re a monster,” said Shauna. 

He couldn’t find it. Shit. “Todos somos monstruos,” he offered. “Solo soy un gilipollas.” [We’re all monsters. I’m just also an asshole.]

“You wield the spine like a mortal’s. That is-- that is a sin. You deserve the death Daithi wanted.”

Ah, fuck.

Cillian.

In his arms was Lopez’s head.

He sounded absolutely fucking pissed.

Well. There were some things worse than death. Lopez just hoped, for Daithi’s sake, having your spine ripped out was one of them.

Lopez straightened his posture, tightening his grip on Daithi’s spine. 

A growl tore from the woods, and then a wolf was on top of Cillian, a massive paw on each of his shoulders and pinning him to the ground. It barked, the sound deep and loud enough to sound as if it ripped through the whole of the forest.

What the fuck.

The wolf whipped around, facing Lopez long enough for him to make out a wide snout full of graying furs, before it grabbed Cillian’s head in its jawed and pawed away.

It trotted over to Lopez, the bulky muscles on its stocky frame shifting with each step.

It dropped Cillian’s head.

Oh. _Oh._

It was helping him. 

Lopez picked up the head and turned back to Cillian. “¿Quiero negociar?” [Wanna trade?]

Cillian’s chest was heaving as he sat back up. “Fine,” he snapped, tossing over Lopez’s head.

Thank fuck. 

He picked it up, hanging it against his belt before throwing his coat over top it. Then he hurled Cillian’s head somewhere into the brush, causing him to curse wildly as he stood up. 

“K… kill him.”

Oh, yes. Daithi.

All the Dullahans turned to Lopez.

Hm. Not ideal.

He probably should have killed Daithi when he had the chance. Then he wouldn’t have been able to give the order.

The wolf growled, the fur on its back bristling as it stepped in front of Lopez defensively. “¿Qué demonios te pasa?” he asked even as he spread his feet in a readying position and hooked the end of Daithi’s spine over his shoulder. [What’s up with you?]

The wolf glanced back at him, and Lopez could’ve sworn its lips curled back in a smile. 

It turned back, stomped one paw on the ground, and howled.

Lopez had never known wolves to be this theatrical.

Unless… “Mierda. Estoy tratando con un maldito hombre lobo.” [Fuck. I’m dealing with a goddamn werewolf.]

The wolf flew forward, and Lopez instinctively fell into step behind it, twirling the whip over his head once before launching into attack. It’d been a while since he’d used his military training to an extended degree. After getting his head chopped off in the war, there hadn’t really been many threats to take him on.

It was instinct.

Dodging and weaving, isolating the enemy, determining who offered the biggest threat in a given moment… it was almost like he’d been made for it.

As he and the wolf took down his former group one by one, he decided that maybe Dullahans never should’ve started herds in the first place.


	6. Mind Over Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The werewolf is fucking weird, and Lopez decides to follow him anyway.

Lopez knew when to fight and when to run, and now was the time for the latter.

It was two against eleven, and as much as Lopez would like to claim that his skill and the wolf’s brutality was enough to overpower those eleven, that wasn’t nearly the case. Dullahans were technically immortal so long as their heads remained undestroyed, and they had a pain tolerance that was miles wide. At least Daithi wasn’t exactly effective without a spine.

That being said, he took a particularly nasty blow to the shoulder from a whip before Egra tried to stampede him with his horse.

Lopez rolled out of the way. “Perro - ¡Tenemos que irnos!” [Dog -- we need to go!]

The wolf ripped off Egra’s arm before turning to Lopez, a wild, bloody grin on its face.

It was enjoying this.

Lopez was suddenly very thankful it was on his side. He got onto his feet, watching as the rest of the Dullahans started to regroup. “¡Corre, idiota!” [Run, idiot!]

Immediately, he took his own advice by turning tail and ducking into the brush where horses would have a hard time following. 

Hopefully, his horse would find her way back. Dullahans weren’t supposed to become attached to their rides, but creatures tended to form a semblance of a bond after countless years together.

He couldn’t think about that now.

There were shouts behind him, followed by a threatening growl.

The wolf burst into the brush beside him.

Apparently, the Dullahans didn't care if horses had a hard time. They were still fast.

Hence the Dullahans that followed immediately after.

Lopez was completely fucked.

Both running and fighting were bad options.

Without breaking pace, the wolf grabbed Lopez by the collar of his coat and kept sprinting.

“Joder, joder, _joder_! ¡Bájame!” [Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! Put me down!]

His legs were snagging twigs and rocks as the bastard kept going, somehow maintaining the same fucking speed. Instinctively, he shifted his hand to make sure his head was still strapped to his belt -- it was.

The wolf made a jump, knocking Lopez’s back against a fallen tree trunk.

It stopped, lifted its nose to the air, and sniffed.

Lopez put a hand to his chest. Thank fuck he was no longer mortal -- he’d have a goddamn heart attack.

He leaned up, brushing some of the leaves and dirt off his uniform. He couldn’t hear any more hooves. Had they lost them?

The wolf transformed, arching up into an older man with a short, stocky build similar to his wolf counterpart. The hair on his head and beard was white, and his eyes seemed to be a wild gray. 

His smile carried the same pointed edge it had when he was a wolf. “Name’s Sarge,” he said in lieu of a more appropriate greeting given their current situation.

“Ese no puede ser tu nombre en serio.” [That can’t seriously be your name.]

Sarge threw his head back and cackled, hands resting casually as fists against his hips. “Good one, soldier!” Lopez was 90 percent sure Sarge hadn’t understood him. “You got a name?”

He stood up. Even without a head, he stood taller than the man in front of him. Despite this fact, Sarge seemed content. “Lopez,” he replied.

“A fine name! Now, Lopez, you don’t happen to be a Dirty Blue, do ya?”

What the fuck. “No?”

“Glad to hear it! And you certainly ain’t a vampire, seeing as you’re still alive even without that head on your shoulders.”

He was dealing with a complete idiot.

“So… not a vamp or a Blue means you’re free to stay with me!”

“No estaba de acuerdo con esto.” [I didn't agree to this.]

“I can’t say I’ve had anything quite like you at my place, but I’m always open to a fellow soldier! Whatever it is you are.”

So Sarge had never encountered a Dullahan before. This wasn’t exactly surprising, given their numbers. What was surprising was the fact that Sarge wasn’t entirely bewildered by Lopez’s existence. “Estás loco, viejo.” [You’re insane, old man.]

“Ha! Quite the mouth you got, Lopez! How do you talk, anyway?”

“El puro pesar me da todo el poder que necesito.” [Pure spite gives me all the power I need.]

Sarge chuckled. “Sorry, no hablo español, amigo.”

“He estado hablando español todo el tiempo.” [I’ve been speaking Spanish this whole time.]

“Looks like you don’t speak any English.” Sarge looked around suddenly. “Hm, let’s get closer to the road. The other headless bozos are starting to pick up our trail.”

“No me estás arrastrando de nuevo,” he said, taking a step back. [You aren’t dragging me again.] If only Daithi hadn’t gotten rid of his horse.

Sarge narrowed his gaze. “I s’pose I could drag you again--”

“No.”

“Okay, son! Guess we can walk for a while. Hopefully they’ll get off our scent.”

Dullahans were excellent at tracking mortals, but that was primarily through their souls. Supernatural creatures didn't offer the same aura, so they stood a better chance.

It was pointless but… “¿Por qué me ayudaste?” [Why did you help me?]

“You’re absolutely right, Lopez! We should get a move on, pronto!”

With that, he began the tramp forward.

Lopez watched him for a moment.

Then he looped Daithi’s spine around his shoulder and followed.

\----

“Erm--! Hello, Sarge.” 

They’d just emerged from the woods and were immediately met by a man who looked a bit startled by their sudden arrival. He adjusted his glasses as he looked from Sarge to Lopez and back again. “What is--? hm. Lovely… costume, sir?” the man continued, tilting his head to look at Lopez’s neck.

“Sí,” Lopez drawled. “Es un maldito disfraz increíble.” [Yes. It’s a fucking amazing costume.]

“Um, right.” He glanced anxiously at Sarge. “Is this one of your new boarders?”

Sarge puffed his chest out and smiled. “Exactly, right, Doyle. His name’s Lopez! Doesn’t speak a lick of English, but we’re making it work.”

“That’s… nice.” A brief smile flashed across Doyle’s features. “I’m still trying to rent out apartment 13, but with the apparent hauntings…” He sighed and shook his head. “Gary and Lillian seem interested in it, so hopefully that will pan out!”

Sarge cocked his head. “As long as it ain’t a Dirty Blue, I’m sure whoever ends up there’ll be perfect.”

“Yes, those… Blue scoundrels won’t be causing any problems here.” Doyle smiled more fully then, as if he was proud of himself for entertaining Sarge’s delusions. 

Sarge chuckled. “Right. We’ll be on our way, then.”

“If you don’t mind,” Doyle piped up just as they were getting ready to leave, “what were you doing? It’s only just dawn, and you look like you’ve been in the woods all night.”

“That’s because we were! Gettin’ chased by a buncha Headless Horsemen.”

Lopez wanted to roll his eyes. “Sí. Jinetes sin cabeza como yo. Esto tendrá perfecto sentido para un mortal.” [Yes. Headless Horsemen like me. This will make perfect sense to a mortal.]

“Headless… very interesting. Well, I’m glad to see you both made it out unscathed.” Doyle swallowed. “And, uh, very nice realism on… that spine.”

“Pertenece a un Dullahan. No te enojes.” [It belongs to a Dullahan. Don’t get pissy.]

“I have… so many questions,” said Doyle, shaking his head, “but I will let you two get back to it. Pleasure to meet you, Lopez.”

“Choke en una polla, Doyle.” [Choke on a dick, Doyle.]

Sarge clapped Lopez’s shoulder, and Lopez resisted the urge to swat off the werewolf’s hand. “He says it’s nice meetin’ you, too.” With that, he turned and began strutting confidently across the middle of the road.

For fuck’s sake.

Lopez jogged on after him, ignoring the looks he got from the few other people milling about. He suspected that Sarge was a bit of a notorious oddball around here, so sticking with him may make Lopez… less suspicious.

What the hell was he thinking? Willingly going into a public area full of mortals to… what? Hide from his fellow Dullahans, who weren’t so stupid as to come to a place like _this_?

He shifted back into step next to Sarge once he reached the sidewalk.

“Holy shit,” someone said. “That’s badass! Is there a comic-con going on I didn't hear about?”

Lopez clenched his fist around the tail of the spine and ran his other hand against the section of coat his head was under. He was getting antsy. Lopez didn't _get_ antsy. “No,” he said to the person who asked the question when Sarge didn't offer an answer.

He could still feel the eyes on him as he continued on.

Lopez had known he’d stand out, and he’d known mortals were stupid enough to think he was simply a mortal in costume. That being said, actually experiencing it was another matter entirely.

He was relieved beyond belief when Sarge finally stopped outside a door. He started rummaging through his pockets for something, but Lopez wasn’t exactly patient.

He turned the handle and walked inside.

“What in the Sam Hill--” Sarge exclaimed behind him before following him in.

The space was bigger than he’d imagined it, opening to a wide entry room. On the left was a somewhat crudely-designed spiral staircase leading to the floor above.

“Así que invitaste a un agente de la muerte para que se quedara en esta casa intermedia para los hombres lobo y los perros de guerra. Realmente no piensas las cosas, ¿verdad?” he said, perhaps a little bitterly. [So you invited an agent of death to stay in this halfway house for werewolves and weredogs. You don't really think things through, do you?]

“Sure thing, Lopez! Now if you don’t mind tellin’ me, how the hell did you pick that lock so fast? May be a handy trait to have!”

Lopez turned his shoulders so as to give Sarge the impression that he was looking at him. “¿La cerradura?” He snapped his fingers. “ _Cerradura_?” he emphasized, as though doing so would allow him to ask about the word in English. [The lock? _Lock_?] “¿La mierda es una cerradura?” [The fuck is a lock?]

Sarge blinked, looking a bit confused. Fair enough, but still annoying.

Lopez groaned. “No puedo hablar inglés físicamente, así que por favor aprende español espontáneamente.” [I physically cannot speak English, so please learn Spanish spontaneously.]

“Righto,” said Sarge, giving him some finger guns. “I suppose you’ll have to show rather than tell, ha!”

“Por favor mátame.” [Please kill me.]

“I’m glad you agree, Lopez!”

He didn't have time for this. He just needed to…

To…. 

He technically didn't need to do anything. Stay hidden from his group of Dullahans. Perhaps find his horse, who was probably following instinct to head to the most supernaturally-populated location nearby. Or dead. More likely that one.

“Here!” said Sarge, putting something into the door handle and twisting. Then he tested the handle a couple times. The door didn't budge. “Show me how you picked it.”

Picked it? Did he mean open it? And had he purposefully jammed it?

Whatever. He could just get this shit over with.

Lopez walked over, grabbed the handle, twisted it, and opened the door.

Ah, not jammed.

“That’s certainly something, soldier.” Sarge had furrowed his brow and was staring at the door thoughtfully. “Seems like you can unlock it just by touchin’ it. Perfect for Blue infiltration!”

“¿Qué te pasa y Azules?” he asked, pulling the door back closed. [What’s with you and Blues?]

“Oh, gosh, a Dullahan! I can’t say I’ve seen one of you in years--”

Lopez reacted before he could think.

In one, quick motion, he’d released his spine whip and lashed it at his perceived attacker.

Lopez caught him in the face, and said attacker released a high-pitched scream before stumbling back and falling on his ass.

Well, shit.

He hadn’t even realized that he’d dropped into his fighting stance, knees bent and feet spread shoulder-width apart with one arm palm-flat by his side defensively, the other still holding his whip.

And he’d just attacked some guy who walked down the fucking stairs.

Against most creatures, a strike to the face from a whip a Dullahan was wielding would lead to blindness -- death, in the case of mortals.

“Oh, that is _definitely_ leaving a mark,” said this fucking idiot, pulling his hand back with a wince. The side of the face Lopez had hit was already scarring, red and welting. 

Lopez straightened his stance, tucking the spine beneath his armpit. He offered the man a hand, trying not to be surprised by the fairly minimal damage his attack had done. “Lo siento,” he offered, even though he despised apologies. “Me tomaste por sorpresa.” [Sorry. You took me by surprise.]

The man took his hand with a broad smile and another wince. “Oh, now, don’t worry! I didn't mean to surprise you, and I _was_ aware that Dullahans were an antsy sort!” When he was finally standing, he pulled back his hand and pressed it against his face. “I suppose they do say scars add character,” he mused. It sounded a bit dejected, and Lopez ignored the way his stomach roiled. “Oh! My name is Franklin Delano Donut,” he said, tilting his head. “I’m a fairy, like you!”

Oh. That explained it. Fairies were often resistant to each other. “¿Qué tipo de hada?” he ventured. [What type of fairy?] Some were less trustworthy than others, Dullahans being among the least trustworthy, to be frank. This fairy’s genial attitude was a bit surprising.

Donut winced. “Ah, well, I’m Aos Si, but I was kicked out of my group. Living without the folk will be a first for me!”

Lopez took note of a couple things in this moment. One: Donut had actually understood him. Two: Sarge was watching the two of them like some kind of pleased father even though Lopez had just physically assaulted a fellow houseguest. Three: Donut was Aos Si, which meant Lopez had actually been wrong and, had he stayed in the forest, would probably have been attacked by a group of them because they were insane fuckers. Four: _Donut was Aos Si_. He didn't act much like it -- sure, he had a physical appearance of one, minus the wings which he probably had in the interdimensional space, but Aos Si were assholes on a good day.

Maybe that was why Donut was kicked out.

“You know, I thought Dullahans had taken to living in groups as well. Were you kicked out, too? Is that why Sarge brought you here?”

“Básicamente. Eso, y arranqué la espina de nuestro líder.” [Basically. That, and I ripped out our leader’s spine.]

“You tried to make a move on the leader?” Donut gasped. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you!”

What. “Eso no es lo que yo dije.” [That’s not what I said.]

Donut nodded gravely. “Yes, I completely understand. We’ll get through this transition together. What’s your name, anyway?”

Goddammit. He thought he’d found someone who actually spoke Spanish fluently. 

Whatever. “Lopez,” he said, not bothering to think twice about the consequences of giving a fellow fairy his name. Resistant against his powers or not, Donut could likely do some damage knowing it.

“What a wonderful name! I do hope you choose to stay here -- having another fairy will be nice. Besides, sometimes it gets a bit lonely not having many others around.” He looked over Lopez’s shoulder. “Though I do love your company, Sarge!”

Lopez was almost certainly going to regret every decision that led up to this point. “No tengo exactamente otra opción.” [I don’t exactly have another option.]

“Wonderful!” Donut chirped. “Follow me, and I’ll help you choose a room! There’s a safe in mine you can have to keep your head in. And you won’t even need to worry about remembering a code, seeing as Dullahans are resistant to locks! A neat trick, that.” He bounced up the stairs.

Lopez spared one last look to the werewolf who’d saved him, then followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sarge is fuckign weird but das okay


	7. No Leash On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons tries to be more human. Grif reopens the discussion on Simmons' safe-hacking abilities and quickly regrets it.

Simmons was perched on a chair on the side of the wooden table in the kitchen area. His eyes kept flitting from Sarge to Donut and back to Grif.

Grif had made himself comfortable, chowing down confidently on a cheeseburger. It looked disgusting.

Simmons was trying to figure out how to properly hold a fork. It was embarrassing, really, especially since Grif kept shooting glances his way. Donut looked vaguely sympathetic.

Sage wasn’t. “You gonna eat that salad, son? You chose it, so--”

“Y- yes, sir!” he said, spearing the fork into some lettuce. He’d chosen salad seeing as it was the healthiest option, and he couldn’t exactly eat much in the ways of greens as a dog. He preferred eating healthy, and he knew this was better for him as a human.

If only he knew _how_ to eat it.

He opened his mouth, and carefully shoved in the fork.

Grif lifted an eyebrow.

Simmons shut his mouth around the fork and glared.

Donut cleared his throat and clapped his hands. “So!” he said, briefly eyeing Simmons, “I heard you’ve stayed here before, Grif. How does it feel to be back home?”

It was an innocent enough question, but Grif still frowned as he took another bite. It was interesting to see how comfortably he moved as a human -- every step was casual, every hand gesture was natural, every facial expression displaying exactly what he wanted when he wanted. Simmons was almost jealous. _Almost_. Human skin still felt unnatural on him; walking on two legs was awkward; controlling his own expressions was impossible.

He pulled the fork from his mouth, and the metal slid against his teeth.

Simmons winced and decided that maybe he should avoid doing that next time.

“Um, fine,” Grif said. “Though I wouldn’t exactly say this is home.”

“Oh, now, don’t be silly! We’re having a meal together! It’s _just_ like a family.” Donut suddenly huffed, sticking out his bottom lip. “I do hope Lopez doesn’t feel left out. It’s not like he can exactly eat.”

“Lopez?” said Grif.

Simmons took another bite, perhaps opening his mouth a bit too wide. It was like eating when his mouth was numb.

Donut tilted his head. “Oh, you haven’t met? He _is_ pretty shy, but I’m sure he’ll come out eventually!”

Simmons considered the words. This… Lopez couldn’t eat. What type of creature was he, then? Did he live on photosynthesis? Was he a plant organism? That would be crazy, sure, but Donut was an actual _fairy_. Simmons himself could transform into a human. He understood that the unlikely was possible -- he just wanted to be able to explain it.

Which meant he’d definitely need to find some proper equipment for testing himself soon. He was getting jittery with nothing to do. Sarge said he was going to give them tasks starting Monday, but that meant he still had to get through today and the weekend.

“Yeah, sure. Is he another fairy friend of yours? Wait, is he someone _you_ got kicked out with?”

Donut waved a hand. “No, no. I was kicked out alone. But Lopez _is_ a fairy! Not exactly the same type as me -- his kind is a bit more scarce.”

Simmons swallowed his food, subsequently realizing he hadn’t chewed enough. He spoke anyway, “There are multiple breeds of fairy?”

Donut looked to him, nodding in a way that could only be described as encouraging. “Essentially! We differ a bit more than weredogs do from werewolves, though.”

He leaned forward. “Do--”

“Don’t nerd out, Simmons,” said Grif, his mouth still full.

“I’m not nerding out! I was just asking a question!”

“I really don’t mind,” said Donut.

Sarge sniffed the air. “Asking questions is the perfect way to detect weakness in the enemy! And as they say…” He lowered his tone, “practice makes perfect.”

Simmons blinked. “The enemy,” he parroted. “Right.”

Sarge grinned at him. Simmons tried not to take pride in that.

“Yeah, the Blues, vampires. Enemy.” Grif suddenly straightened, looking to Donut. “Wait, please tell me fairies and weres are the only real supernatural creatures. Vampires don’t _actually_ exist, do they?”

Simmons dropped his fork, and it clattered to the floor. Nobody looked at him as he reached over to pick it up.

“Well,” said Donut, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “that also depends on your definition of supernatural.”

“Because we’re not actually supernatural,” Simmons added, setting the utensil flat on the table. “Supernatural suggests being beyond scientific understanding, which we’re not. We just haven’t been properly analyzed.”

“Yup!” said Donut. “I, for one, am _very_ curious what scientific analysis would say. Getting tested sounds like fun!”

Oh, that was _perfect_. 

“That doesn’t answer my question!” Grif interrupted. “Are vampires real?”

Donut chuckled. “I have never personally met a vampire--”

“I fucking _knew_ it--”

“--but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist! My den had gotten word that there was a vampire nest near here. We typically stay away from them -- they know better than to go by their real names around fairies; not to mention, they’re quite vicious! We call them the assassins of the cryptid world.” Donut shuddered dramatically. “Kill first, ask questions later. Luckily, they usually keep to themselves.”

“This sounds more like a dumb ghost story than anything else,” said Grif. “You sure those aren’t just rumors?”

Simmons could feel his hope deflate. 

Donut sat back in his chair. “As much as I like a good gossip, I believe this is more than rumors!”

“They are,” Sarge growled. Grif immediately groaned, but Sarge continued as though he hadn’t heard him. “I’ve met one myself!”

“That so?” said Grif, looking unimpressed.

Sarge sighed, stared off into the middle distance, and nodded.

Simmons frowned. “Is there a story there, or--”

“Back at my pack,” said Sarge, “we made the mistake of stumbling across a nest. Thirty of us and fifteen of them. Only four of us made it out.”

Simmons blinked. “Oh. I’m… so sorry.”

“War is war, weredog! I, for one, miss the battles. I just wish Grif had been there, so he could’ve died under friendly fire!”

“Not this bullshit again--”

“A damn shame,” Sarge said, shaking his head.

Whether or not Sarge was right, there were certainly creatures that needed to be understood in existence, and if no one else was doing it… 

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” Simmons said suddenly, standing up.

Grif looked at him with a smirk that made his eyes brighten. “As a dog or--”

“Oh, I could get you a leash!” said Donut.

“As a human,” Simmons interrupted, already feeling his face heat up. “I-- just want to see what all is around here. This is my first time in a morta-- in a town, and I want to actually see what it’s like.”

Grif sighed. “Dude, you’re going to look so weird.”

“What? Why!”

“Um, because you’re an idiot who knows nothing about mortals.” He quickly downed the rest of his burger before kicking out his chair. “I’ll go with you.”

Simmons' chest did a thing. “Oh!”

“That a problem?”

“No!” He cleared his throat. “Not a problem.”

“Cool.” Grif walked over to him before turning around and lifting his middle finger at Sarge. “No way that vampire story isn’t bullshit.”

Sarge’s face contorted in annoyance. “Turncoat!”

“Get fucked, old man,” he said before turning around and strolling out the front door.

“Uh-- sorry, sir!” Simmons stammered before following him. “Grif! What the--” He stumbled over his feet as he stepped off the small ledge, nearly colliding with Grif, “--Fuck!”

Grif grabbed his arm to hold him steady. His hand was warm, the heat swimming against his arm where their skin met. Simmons looked up, meeting his eyes briefly.

After a second, he shook his arm free and tugged at the bottom of his maroon t-shirt. “You’re an asshole,” he snapped.

“I saved you from eating pavement. You should be thanking me.”

“Whatever,” he said, scowling. “I want to see if there’s a place where I can get some equipment.”

Grif sighed. “What equipment? Vampire-killing equipment?”

“ _No._ Lab equipment.”

Grif gave him a flat look. “Simmons,” he said.

Simmons could feel the tips of his ears turning red. What now? “What.”

“You’re a nerd. A nerd who could probably figure out how to use lab equipment once you got your hands on it and some time to actually get used to using those hands.”

“Where is this going?” he said.

“Lab equipment is expensive, and we don’t have money. Besides, you’d need a proper place to store and use all that shit, and that place sure as fuck isn’t at Sarge’s.”

He… hadn’t thought about that.

He’d been too enthralled with the idea of actually being able to _do_ something, to use the skills he’d learned, to have a purpose.

“Oh,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Grif. “But if you want some money, I may have an idea on how to--”

“Grif?” came a shout from across the street.

Simmons started, and Grif simply turned, a perfunctory smile on his face. “Kimball, was it?”

Oh. _Oh._ The babysitter from before.

Kimball jogged across the street. When she got over she fixed them with a smile. “Nice running into you again. Are you staying with Sarge?”

Simmons swallowed, shifting his footing as Grif nodded. “Yeah, just got settled in. You live across the street?”

She nodded. “I do. It’s pretty close to my self-defense studio while still not too far from the kids, so it’s perfect.” She then turned her gaze to Simmons. “So you know Grif?”

His throat felt dry. “Yup! I’m, uh, Dick. Dick Simmons.”

She blinked. “Simmons? You mean--”

He fucked up. Oh God. Oh _God_.

Grif just chuckled and slapped a hand against his back. “Yeah, he told me as a joke to name the dog after him.” He shrugged. “Now both he and the dog are Simmons.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. It wasn’t a great lie, but he had to give Grif some credit: he’d come up with it pretty fast. “It’s weird,” he said, shooting Grif a glare. “Trust me -- I know.”

Kimball snorted before bringing a hand to her mouth. “Sorry. That’s… certainly interesting. Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around a bit more.”

“Definitely,” Grif replied smoothly. Jesus -- how could he turn off his asshole-ishness so easily and completely? “We’re just taking a walk around the area to see what’s here.” He perked up suddenly. “You got any food recommendations?”

She grinned. “Kalto’s is pretty nice. They’ve got a bit of everything, and it’s buffet-style.”

Grif closed his eyes. “Oh, _fuck_ yes.”

Simmons imagined the money thing was still going to be a bit of an issue. 

“Also,” Kimball continued, “if you’re looking for something to do on the weekends, you can check out my self-defense class. I’ve been trying to get as many people to come as possible -- the more recruits, the better. First training’s free if you want to stop by.”

He could already see Grif starting to reject the offer.

“We’ll be there,” Simmons said, slapping on a smile.

“Uh, what?” said Grif.

“Great! Here’s my card,” she said, holding out a small slip of paper. Simmons took it, making sure not to bend the edges. “Feel free to invite others.”

With that, she gave them a final wave and began her trek to… wherever.

“Simmons, are you fucking kidding me,” Grif stated flatly, looking over at Simmons with a pointedly annoyed expression.

“It’s something to do,” Simmons shot back defensively, wrapping his arms around his midsection. 

“You literally haven’t managed to walk down the stairs without tumbling. How do you expect to do self-defense?” 

That wasn’t something he’d given any thought. He waved a hand. “It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, well good luck dragging me along.”

“Oh, so you suddenly trust me to be among mortals by myself? What if I bite someone?”

“Simmons, shut the fuck up.” He was glowering down at him. Simmons did his best to match the stare. 

Grif finally threw his head back with a groan. “Okay, fine. I’ll go with you. But only because I can think of a million ways off the top of my head how you’d fuck things up.”

He felt a grin forming. “Right.” 

Then he strolled off.

“The fuck was that supposed to mean?” Grif said, his strides easily catching up to Simmons. “You know what? I don’t care. But since we aren’t getting you any lab equipment, why don’t we just go ba--”

“FUCKING HELL-- CABOOSE! SLOW THE _FUCK_ DOWN! SON OF A BITCH!”

Grif furrowed his brows and turned to the source of the yelling.

There was a lean, black-haired man clinging to a taller, brown-haired one. His legs were wrapped securely around the bigger one’s waist while his arms looked close to strangling him. His face was planted in the brown hair as he released another muffled yell.

“BUT THIS IS FUN CH-URCH WE ARE OUTSIDE AND I AM RUNNING AND IT FEELS NICE DOESN’T IT FEEL NICE CAN YOU FEEL IT?”

The man sprinted across the street, a wide smile lining his features.

“What the fuck?” said Grif.

Simmons shifted one step behind Grif just in case the man started running in their direction.

“Oh! Hello!"

“Shitshitshit he’s coming this way,” said Grif, glancing around as though in search of some way to defend himself. Simmons stayed behind him.

There was a scuffling sound, and Simmons poked his head out from behind Grif’s shoulderblades.

“I am Michael J. Caboose,” said the man, his hair swaying slightly. “Can you see my best friend? His name is Leonard Church.”

The other man looked up, his bright green eyes narrowed to annoyed slits. “For fuck’s sake, Caboose.” Then he looked between Grif and Simmons, almost as if he was expectant.

“Um. Yes?” said Grif.

“Is this normal?” Simmons whispered.

“Why are we whispering?” asked Caboose.

Simmons jumped before awkwardly unfolding himself so he was standing next to Grif. “Um… hi?”

Church was staring at them, looking dumbfounded. “Uh,” he said.

“I’m Dick Simmons,” he spouted out. That’s what mortals did, right? Introduce themselves? He could do that. He’d done that in his pack. It was normal. He was normal. Everything was fine.

Church snorted. “Heh. _Dick_.”

“What the fuck is with him barrelling around the place while you piggyback him?” said Grif.

“It’s a secret!” said Caboose.

“His name is Dexter Grif,” Simmons added. He was really starting to feel like this wasn’t at all how people normally met one another. Kimball’s interaction had been quite tame by comparison.

“They see you,” said Caboose, craning his neck to look up at Church. For a second, his blue eyes seemed to flash red, and the hair on the back of Simmons’ neck rose.

“Yeah, Caboose. I can tell.”

“I think this is fun.”

Church sighed. “I know, Caboose.”

Caboose whipped his head back around to smile at them. “We are off to go on adventures good-bye!”

With that, he took off once more. Church yelled something about a trial run.

Grif exhaled. “No. That was not normal.”

Simmons blinked. “Um, I gathered that after a bit.”

“Then again, there’s a fuck-ton of weird mortals out there. I’m sure we’ll meet more under even weirder circumstances.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Get over it.” Grif sniffed. “Ugh, I’m hungry.”

“We just ate!” Simmons squawked. Well, he hadn’t actually eaten much. Learning in front of other people probably wasn’t the best way to go about it.

“Still hungry. I’m not gonna go for a pointless walk while hungry.”

“But I still want to see the t--”

“Nope. We’re going back inside. You can explore the town tomorrow when we go to that dumbass defense class. Just no peeing on stuff on the way there.”

“I’m not an idiot!”

“You fooled me.”

Grif opened the door.

Donut was in the entryway talking to--

Simmons yelped, stumbled backward, and fell onto his ass. “W- whatthefuck?” he asked, his voice pitching high at the end.

Grif was frozen in place.

There was a sigh. “Dos segundos y ya quiero asesinaros a los dos.” [Two seconds and I already want to murder you both.]

“What,” said Grif.

“Oh!” said Donut. “This is Lopez, the other fairy!”

“That not a fucking--” Simmons cut himself off, snapping his jaw shut as the torso turned toward him. 

“That’s a goddamn Headless Horseman without a horse,” said Grif.

“A Dullahan!” said Donut. “Lopez is such a delight! He has a great sense of humor.”

“No es humor. Es sarcasmo.” [It’s not humor. It’s sarcasm.]

“Well, I find sarcasm to be very humorous!”

“What’s with the Spanish?” said Grif. Simmons could see all the fucks Grif gave slipping away as he shoved his hands into his pockets. As if there wasn’t a dude without a head literally right fucking there.

“Oh, he was cursed,” said Donut. 

Simmons swallowed, finally getting back to his feet. “C- cursed?” he said.

Donut simply nodded as though this made perfect sense.

“Curses aren’t… nevermind.” There was some plausible explanation for that. Maybe Lopez just didn't speak English and was joking to Donut? “Wait, how are you talking?” he said, facing Lopez.

Except he didn't know where to look. How do you look at someone without a face?

“¿Hablas español?”

Simmons blinked. He understood those two words, but… “No. I, um, don’t speak Spanish.”

“Entonces, ¿por qué diablos me preguntaste?” [Then why the fuck did you ask me?]

Oh. Right. He wouldn’t understand the answer. That… wasn’t ideal.

His eyes slid down to Lopez’s clothes -- a well-fitted brown army uniform, by the looks of it. It also looked like it’d never been washed, despite its relatively well-kempt form. 

He didn't know anything about Dullahans. Which were apparently fairies? He also didn't know what the Headless Horseman that Grif mentioned was.

But he _did_ know that the uniform this Dullahan was wearing was old. He’d seen enough photographs in those history books to tell how they’d changed over time, working to suit the decade.

This looked… _centuries_ old.

Holy shit.

This Dullahan probably knew more about the ‘supernatural’ than anyone else he’d ever met. To have survived in this world despite looking so out of place certainly meant something -- this creature probably knew ins and outs Simmons hadn’t even begun to consider.

Except he didn't fucking speak Spanish.

“Goddammit,” he said.

“Creo que prefiero que te asustes,” said the man without a head, without a mouth, without any logical way to be fucking speaking to Simmons right now. [I think I prefer you scared.]

“We should probably shut the door in case someone happens to walk by,” said Grif. “I’ve already explained the dog-named-Simmons thing, but I don’t think I can spin how a headless dude is standing here.”

“Caminé en la vista pública. Los mortales son jodidamente tontos. Al igual que ustedes gilipolla,” said Lopez, sounding mildly put-off. [I walked in public view. Mortals are fucking dumb. Just like you assholes.]

“Uh, yeah,” said Simmons. He brushed past Grif, except Grif was pretty big so it was more of a squeeze where they touched perhaps a bit more than intended because Simmons wasn’t used to walking in spaces in human form and thus was miscalculating except it had been pretty clear that the space hadn’t been big enough for him but he went for it anyway for some reason.

Grif didn't comment, simply stepping inside after him and shutting the door. 

“Well,” said Donut, “this is Grif,” he said pointing at Grif, “and this is Simmons,” he finished, shifting his hand. “They were kicked out of their pack not too long ago, much like the two of us!”

“¿Arrancaron la espina de alguien?” [Did they rip out someone’s spine?]

Donut pursed his lips. “Grif dice que fue porque se comió su provisión de invierno.” [Grif says it was because he ate their winter supply.]

What was happening? Simmons sent a frantic look in Grif’s direction, but the other man seemed disinterested.

“Déjame adivinar: crees que son amantes,” said Lopez. [Let me guess: you think they’re lovers.]

Donut shot Lopez a wicked smile. “Who am I to say!”

“I don’t think I like this,” said Simmons.

“Anyone got a safe that Simmons can practice hacking?” Grif asked.

“No,” said Lopez immediately.

Simmons couldn’t help but perk up. “You want me to open safes? I mean, I don’t see what you’d gain from--”

Donut’s expression turned solemn. “Are you going to rob a bank?” he said.

Simmons drew back his head. “What do safes have to do with robbing banks?” he asked because, _yes_ , he did know what banks were, thank you very much _Grif_. Lopez was backing away, heading in the direction of the stairs.

“Donut, shut up. Just answer the question.”

“What?” said Simmons. “I think I’m missing something here.”

Donut gave Simmons a sympathetic look that made his skin crawl with annoyance. “Simmons,” he said, his tone soothing, “You lived in a pack your whole life. That’s what you said, right?” 

Simmons couldn’t remember if he’d actually told Donut this, so he just nodded.

“Then how the _fuck_ do you know how to crack a safe?”

“Uhhh--” said Simmons.

“His dad got him to crack them,” Grif drawled as though Donut’s whole attitude hadn’t just shifted with one very fake smile. 

“Oh, is that so?” Donut cocked his head, eyes flitting to Lopez as the ( _headless_ what the fuck) Dullahan went up the stairs. “Now, Simmons,” he continued, that smile growing wider, “I don’t know what Grif has told you--”

“Hold on one fucking second--”

“--but knowing how to crack safes is a _very_ unusual talent! What was in them?”

“I thought fairies would approve of--”

“Green paper?” Simmons offered, narrowing his gaze at Grif.

Grif pursed his lips.

“Oh. So, money.”

Simmons frowned. “I said green pap--”

“Money _is_ green paper, Simmons,” Donut continued with an amused lilt. 

“What the _fuck_? Are you serious?”

Donut nodded earnestly.

“And banks have money in safes?”

Donut nodded again.

There was a brief silence.

Simmons sighed. “Now I kind of want to rob a bank just to see if I could.”

Donut’s eyes widened comically before he started laughing. “Oh, goodness! Well, if you really want to, I’d be happy to help!”

“What just happened?” said Grif. “There’s no way I just accidentally recruited a couple of people for a heist.”

“We aren’t people,” Donut informed him with a smirk. 

“I change my mind,” said Grif.

“I could easily manipulate the camera feeds, so that wouldn’t be a problem!” Donut continued.

“Camera feeds?” asked Simmons.

“I just said I changed my mind!”

“Oh, come on, now -- it’d be fun to do something exciting!”

“Look, I don’t know why I even mentioned it in the first place. We aren’t robbing a bank. Besides, robbing a bank would take work, and I’m not interested in that.”

Donut leaned forward onto his toes. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to! It can just be Simmons and me. Or maybe Lopez, too, seeing as he’s immune to locks, but I don’t think he’ll be very interested.”

Immune to locks? How was something immune to locks?

“Donut, don’t take advantage of Simmons’ naivete. He’s not fully aware of what legality entails. I’m not sure if he’s ever even heard of prison.”

“I’ve heard of prison!” Simmons defended. Idly, he realized that probably wasn’t the part of this conversation he should’ve felt the need to intrude on. 

Grif ignored him. “If you want to do something exciting, just come with us to the fucking self-defense class Simmons roped us into tomorrow.”

Donut bounced back onto his heels. “Oh, that would be lovely! Getting all tangled together and learning new moves--”

“On second thought--”

“--but we _could_ just do both!” Donut finished, planting his hands on his hips.

“I never should’ve opened my mouth.” Grif was now staring off somewhere past Donut.

Donut looked at Simmons. “I’m not sure how Sarge will feel about us robbing a bank.”

Grif rolled his eyes. “He’d just tell you not to get caught.”

Simmons would be the first to admit that he didn't know what, exactly, he was getting himself into. That being said, Grif didn't want him to do this, which made him want to do this even more. That would show him. He _could_ find a way to survive while among mortals-- not that he had anything to prove. And not that he wanted to impress Grif.

He shrugged, the movement awkward and forced, but it got the point across. “Then let’s do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no simms dont do it :/


	8. Vampires Aren't Real, Sarge.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, Simmons transformed down into his dog-self, tail wagging as his breath escaped in excited pants.
> 
> “You need a bath,” said Grif.
> 
> Simmons’ smile dropped instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank bitsby for getting me to actually finish this fuckin chapter she is amazing

Grif knew for an absolute fucking fact that Simmons didn't know what he was getting himself into, and Grif also knew for a fact that this was kinda-sorta his fault.

Simmons liked having a purpose, something to do. He especially liked doing something that proved his worth.

Which now meant robbing a bank?

Fuck.

He tangled a hand into his hair and frowned as he watched the weredog. Was he having to be responsible? Dammit. Since when was he the responsible one?

If Simmons had grown up among mortals, he wouldn’t be doing this. Grif knew this. Simmons had his own set of codes, and while he could be a complete bastard at times, he usually factored in risks and potential positive and negative repercussions before undertaking a task. The nerd would make spreadsheets of that shit if he could, and not in an endearing way. Not that making spreadsheets was ever endearing.

“You know, Simmons,” he said as Simmons hovered over Donut’s shoulder, staring at the computer with a level of awe that told Grif he’d be one of _those_ nerds had he grown up here and, once again, totally not endearing. He did take notice of the fact that, were he a dog right now, Simmons’ tail would be going a hundred miles an hour.

As he were, he was just wide-eyed, grinning, and full of rapt attention that had Grif deciding it would be best to snap his fingers to get the other man’s attention.

He planted his hand right next to Simmons' ear and did just that.

Simmons yelped and stumbled back. He didn't look like he was about to fall, despite the windmill-arms move he pulled, but Grif still helped steady him nonetheless because they were friends. “Simmons,” he repeated.

Donut turned away from the computer screen, leaning his head back over the chair to look at the two of them. He waggled his eyebrows (well, eye _brow_ , seeing as the other one was still mostly overtaken by scarring), which Grif ignored.

“What?” Simmons snapped, pulling himself free.

“Mortals put their own hard-earned money in banks. You want to steal that money?”

“Oh, insurance will pay for the damages,” Donut immediately shot back. “Surely you knew that, Grif.”

Grif glared at Donut. Donut smirked.

Fucking _fairies_ , man.

“Insurance?” said Simmons.

“People work at insurance companies,” Grif continued, glaring pointedly at Donut. “You’ll be making their jobs harder.”

“That _is_ part of their job description!”

“But you’ll also scare the workers--”

“There aren’t employees at this one on Sunday!”

“Stop playing Devil’s advocate, Donut!” Grif finally said, letting his exasperation seep into his tone. “I’m not supposed to be the responsible one!”

“I’m still wondering what insurance is,” Simmons said, eyes straying back to the computer screen where Donut had somehow managed to pull up fucking _schematics_. Was Donut smart, or was this, like, a fairy thing?

“I’m simply helping Simmons fulfill his wish to rob a bank,” said Donut, the smirk still evident in his voice.

“What are you, a genie? Are genies actually a type of fairy? But Simmons is a good guy -- I can’t have you ruining him. Robbing banks is objectively bad.”

“Weren’t you going to try to trick him into robbing a bank?”

“Yeah, and then I decided that even though I was an asshole, I wasn’t _that much_ of an asshole!”

“Well, it _is_ Simmons’ decision.” Donut turned expectantly to Simmons.

Simmons had gone from looking at the computer to looking at Grif.

Grif couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Uh, what?”

Simmons blinked. Then his face flushed, and he shook his head slightly. “Um! Hm?”

Donut spun around in the chair. “Well, Simmons? Would you like to do a bad thing?”

“Don’t say it like that!” Simmons sputtered.

Grif crossed his arms and huffed. “Look, Simmons -- you shouldn’t rob a bank. If you wanna use your safe-hacking skills, use it for… I dunno, nice shit. Steal from the rich and be Robin Hood.”

“Robin Hood?”

“I’m going to kill you. That wasn’t the important part.”

Simmons' face broke into a hesitant smile. “Right. So you… want me to become a vigilante?”

Grif snorted. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Matt Murdock. I’m just telling you not to rob a bank.”

“And to instead steal from the rich.”

“Just to fulfill your innate need to be useful and put your hard-earned skills to actual use for once in your life.”

“Hey!” protested Simmons, and Grif could practically see his fur rising in annoyance. “I-- shut up!”

Grif took a long look at Simmons, taking in the way his green eyes blazed brighter when annoyed, how his brows furrowed in sharp lines and mouth cocked slightly down in the corner. “Don’t rob the bank,” he said with finality.

Simmons rolled his eyes. The action was heavily exaggerated by Simmons’ bobbing head -- Grif suspected he’d only seen other humans roll their eyes and hadn’t done it himself, hence his hard time with it. “Fine,” he said.

Donut, for whatever reason, looked absolutely pleased. “Oh, darn! Looks like I must do my shenanigans elsewhere. I suppose I’ll just stick to your self-defense class for now. That’s tomorrow, right?”

Simmons eyed Donut. “Why are you talking weird?”

“It’s a fairy thing.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Donut stood up, making a quick swiping motion with his hand. All the schematics blipped off the screen. Grif frowned and began wondering if they’d even been real in the first place. “Oh, well. I’ll be off. If you see Lopez, tell him I said bye!”

Donut began to skirt around him, and Simmons made a quick grab for his arm. “Wait, where are you going? You were kicked out of your group. Didn't they scar your face and leave you to die or something?”

Donut chuckled lightly. “Oh, no, not quite. I startled Lopez when we first met, and he hit me with a spine!”

Grif must have misheard. “A spine?”

Donut nodded.

“What the fuck?” asked Simmons. Grif was in agreement. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it! He won’t be ripping out any of our spines.” 

On that note, Donut pranced off.

Grif… was pretty sure he’d just avoided answering Simmons’ first question.

“What just happened?” said Grif.

Simmons pursed his lips. “Well, I’m no longer robbing a bank, so there’s that.”

Grif threw back his head and groaned. “Stop fucking complaining about me stopping you from doing something you’d only regret later.”

“How do you know I’d regret it?”

“Because I know _you_ , Simmons,” he said, looking down to glare at him. Then his brain worked around the words and told him, _woah there, dumbass, you can’t having him thinking you’re sentimental and actually like him because you totally completely don’t why would you think that_ , and he continued, “and you’re a dumbass.”

“Fuck you, Grif.” Did he have resting bitch face or was he just perpetually pissed? “I’m not a dumbass. I just have a few things I need to learn.”

“A few things?” said Grif. “More like a shitton.”

Simmons flushed, and Grif decided that making Simmons either flustered or angry was a fantastic idea because he looked cute-- no, he looked _funny_ all riled up like that. Yes.

“Look,” he said, slowing his voice to a drawl, “you can try to get a job or something. Better yet, we make money off you street-performing as a dog. People love that shit. Plus, it’s completely legal.”

“What about vigilantism?”

“Fuck that. We aren’t going to help other people.” Grif felt himself grin at the way Simmons huffed at that. “We have to help ourselves first.”

“You just want money for food.”

Grif pointed at him. “For once, you are correct. I could use some green paper.”

Simmons’ face wound tight again. “I didn't know, okay?”

Grif was ready to prod further, to push Simmons’ buttons more. It was too easy, really. He’d learned how in the pack, but the face for reactions was new. Which didn't change anything, technically. Or _shouldn’t_ , if he wanted to be a bit more accurate, but even still.

Sarge burst through the door. “What are you rapscallions still--” 

He cut the rant short, eyes noting the two of them. Grif noticed that he’d moved even closer to Simmons subconsciously, using every inch of height he had on the other man to tower over him, make him crane his neck back and really _look_.

Grif took a step back. “Hey, Sarge.”

Sarge clenched his jaw. “Should I give you boys some space or--”

Well, fuck. Grif needed to nope out of this because--

Wait. If Sarge actually believed they were together, he’d probably leave them alone. Like, all the time. That would be a win.

But Simmons was frozen, his eyes wide in desperation. Something like pity drove through Grif’s gut. Simmons was probably trying to determine the best way out of this situation -- he probably didn't even know what Sarge was implying. For him it was probably a scramble of _should I tell him the truth about bank-robbing but no longer bank-robbing or should I lie because I really want to please Sarge blah blah blah._ All neurotic and shit. So he’d just stand there for a while, lost, and Grif could say whatever he wanted because he’d inevitably beat Simmons to the punch.

Fuck. He was going to be _nice_. “We were looking up science jobs for Simmons to apply for. Just finished up.”

Sarge narrowed his eyes.

“Yes. That,” said Simmons, nodding once. Then he stiffened. “Wait, that’s a good idea.”

What. Did this fucking idiot just--

“I mean, that way I’d have a lab to do experiments in, right?” God, he was so fucking naive. “I’d get a proper place with proper equipment and--”

“Don’t say proper again,” Grif interjected. 

“But it’s true! I could finally--”

“I’ve decided you can’t get a job seeing as you only just learned what money actually is.”

Simmons stuck his jaw out stubbornly. Damn, he could probably model-- whatnoshutup whatthefuckwas _that_ , brain? “Grif,” he said, “if I have a job, I’d make money. And you can use the money to buy food.”

Oh, wow. Simmons was bribing him. Well, fuck that. “Or we can do that street talent show I mentioned. Make mad bank without actually robbing banks. Or getting a job.”

“Bank robbery? Job huntin’?” Sarge perked up suddenly. “Does this have to do with dealin’ with them Blues and vampires?”

Simmons stepped forward, eyes blazing with that stupid, kiss-assing confidence he’d grow into. Goddammit. “Yes! If I get a job, I would be able to learn more about vampires and perhaps even discover their weaknesses,” he chirped off like the good li’l soldier he was. That motherfucker.

“Garlic,” said Grif. “Stakes through the heart. Cut off the head. Sunlight. Boom, weaknesses.”

“But Simmons here may discover even more secrets that will save us all!” He smiled wildly. “Very well done, weredog.”

Simmons was very obviously trying not to preen in that compliment. “Th- thank you, sir! In fact, I can start looking right now! Mortals prefer face-to-face interaction, right?” He looked back to Grif. “Then I can prove to them that I’m actually able to do everything right in front of them! I can-- I can run my experiments there and--”

“Nope. You’d make a fool of yourself,” said Grif.

Simmons leaned forward onto his toes. “Then come with me!”

“That’s also a big no.”

Simmons looked absolutely taken aback for some reason, his eyebrows going up and mouth dropping to a small (cute (waitnowhat)) frown. “What? Why?”

Grif stayed composed. “I don’t wanna have to explain every little fuckin’ th--”

“I’ll get you money right fucking now if you do this. I-- I’ll be a show dog. Or whatever.”

Sarge’s head was turning to each of them in time with their speech almost comically. He apparently decided now was a good time to interject. “Where’d ya lose me?”

Grif scoffed. “Aren’t you supposed to be the one to figure out where you got lost in the conversation?”

“Useless as always, Grif! Try to be more like your fellow were, Simmons!”

Yeah, Simmons was definitely loving that. “Sure thing, Sarge.” He looked back to Simmons. “If we get a hundred bucks fast, I will _consider_ going with you for a job interview.” 

His face broke into a wicked smile. “Deal!” he said because he apparently learned nothing about Grif from all their time together.

And just like that, Simmons transformed down into his dog-self, tail wagging as his breath escaped in excited pants.

“You need a bath,” said Grif.

Simmons’ smile dropped instantly.

The bath thing was true, which was the funny part.

Simmons’ eyes flitted to the side as his body stood frozen, quite obviously wanting to sprint the fuck out of here.

Grif sighed. “Just let me get some of the dirt off.”

Sarge grumbled something about privacy and got the fuck out.

Simmons whined.

“Dude,” he said, “you look like an unkempt stray. I can’t have people thinking I don’t take care of you.” That sounded a little weird. “Of my pet dog.” That wasn’t much better. “Of dogs.”

The dog stared at him for a moment. Then he sighed. “Whoo-rhoo.”

Something flared in his chest. “Cool,” he said, not squeaking like Simmons would. “I’ll grab a couple towels.”

As soon as Grif got out of the room, he turned in the direction of the downstairs bathroom. It was a full, and rarely used by anyone since the rooms were upstairs. Not to mention, he was pretty sure Sarge had a personal bathroom (well, hoped was more like it). 

Simmons was legitimately dirty. Like, he-spent-tons-of-fucking-years-in-the-wildnerness-and-only-got-clean-in-a-lake-sometimes dirty.

Which meant towels wouldn’t do.

Grif turned on the bath and plugged the drain.

This probably wasn’t going to be fun. At least, for Simmons it wouldn’t be.

He sighed and clapped out his hands. There was some crappy shampoo upstairs, but it’d probably wreak havoc on Simmons’ fur.

Eh, he could borrow Donut’s shit. Whatever it was, it was probably really good.

Grif stood up and walked out, moving past the room Simmons was in to go upstairs. “No towels down here -- I’m checking upstairs,” he said.

Simmons ruffed in affirmation.

Grif couldn’t help but smile.

He walked into Donut’s room (it was unlocked like before, for whatever reason). The place was mostly barren but organized -- everything in order, the bed neatly made. He wasn’t interested in lingering too long, so he went straight for the dresser. On the surface, in the left corner, were various products, most of which he didn't know the function for. He grabbed the one labelled shampoo, left the room, went to the supply closet to grab a couple towels, and went back downstairs. 

Then Grif put everything in the bathroom and shut off the water, given that it was already half-full.

Okay. 

Now came the hard part.

He went back into the room and shut the door. Simmons was sitting there, looking miffed. He could feel those eyes searching for the towels Grif claimed to be getting, which he’d put in the bathroom. He tilted his head. “Rhow--”

Grif lunged.

Simmons yelped and jumped out of the way, immediately running in the direction of the closed door. As smart as Simmons was, he lacked common sense -- it wouldn’t occur to him to just change back into a fucking human. At least, that was what Grif was counting on.

“For fuck’s sake--” he said, getting back up and approaching Simmons.

Simmons whipped around to face him, eyes wide. “Whoo-rie--”

He went to wrangle Simmons once more. 

Simmons’s body was lean, almost snake-like. Grif’s hands landed on his shoulders, but Simmons tried to run away once more, nearly managing to slip away.

Grif closed his hands in further, actually catching him by his hip-bones. Simmons made some kind of yowling noise, turning to look at Grif like he’d completely and utterly betrayed him. 

What a fucking drama queen.

Simmons kept struggling, so Grif just collapsed on top of him, waiting for him to tire himself out.

It took about 30 seconds, but eventually Simmons gave in with a sigh.

“Yeah, sorry dude. You need, like, an actual bath.”

Simmons just huffed.

“Complain all you want,” said Grif, finally leaning up some. He waited, seeing if Simmons would try to scurry away given that inch of freedom. When he didn't, he pulled himself the rest of the way up. “It’s happening.”

Then he scooped Simmons off of the floor and into his arms, cradling him there. He stepped to the door, awkwardly opening it before bringing his hand back in and adjusting his hold on Simmons.

Then it occurred to him that he was basically cradling Simmons’ butt.

Well, that was definitely something he was going to avoid thinking about as he walked to the bathtub. That and Simmons’ head bobbing under his chin, and Simmons’ tail hitting his thigh from his anxious wagging.

By instinct, he started making soft, reassuring noises to settle him down. Like this was an actual, 100 percent dog. Still, Simmons’ wagging got a bit less frantic so it must have counted for something.

Then they approached the tub.

Simmons whined again and began squirming.

Grif did them both a favor and unceremoniously dumped him in the tub.

It wasn’t weird. Not at all. He was just giving Simmons a bath. 

Simmons wasn’t cooperative, which really wasn’t surprising. He kept trying to scramble out of the water, nails scratching against the slick tiles. Occasionally, he opted for a full leap toward freedom, and Grif had to bodily force him back in, catching the dog midair and thus completely soaking his shirt: Simmons sounded like he was getting murdered with his whining yells and yelps.

“He’s fine!” Grif yelled at Sarge and Lopez unnecessarily, seeing as neither had bothered to check in on the commotion. “He’s just being a whiny bitch!”

“ROW-WOAH-aaaaaAAAHHHHH!” Simmons cried, throwing his head back.

Grif dunked him entirely underwater.

When he pulled him out a second later, Simmons finally scoffed and sat his butt down in the water, shaking his head out slightly.

“See?” Grif said. “Not so bad.”

Simmons gave him a flat look.

Grif pretended not to see it and instead grabbed the shampoo and dumped a batch of it into his palm.

Simmons immediately stood up, nose sniffing wildly in the shampoo’s direction.

“This is shampoo,” he said, holding it closer so Simmons could get a better whiff. “It’s gonna make you _actually_ clean.”

Simmons’ eyes flitted to his.

Grif waited for a moment, checking once more if Simmons would try escaping.

When he didn’t, he put his palm against Simmons’ back, spraying the shampoo against him. “Easy,” he said, tone low as Simmons tensed. “If you’re not an asshole, it’ll go faster.”

Then he began pasting it along, running it along the ridge of his back before moving toward his shoulders and digging in his fingers to actually slather it in.

Simmons actually started to relax under Grif’s touch, muscles easing with each rotation. Grif moved some shampoo to his leg, picking it up and making quick work of it as Simmons balanced on three legs, unsteady with the water pooled beneath him.

Automatically, Grif slipped into a higher pitch as he moved to the other foreleg, saying a quick, “Good job, buddy; doin’ good.”

He tried not to look as he heard Simmons’ tail starting to lightly thump against the sides of the tub.

It would’ve been par for the course if he made a quip or insult at this point, but it seemed oddly wrong in this moment, like he’d be breaking something. Normally, he was quite good at doing some breaking.

For now, he just put a bit more shampoo in his hand and kneeled in front of Simmons’ face. It was a bit damp, with dirt coating the fur around his muzzles and ears. “‘Kay,” he said, “ _seriously_ don’t move on this part unless you want shampoo in your eyes, which for the record, stings like a bitch.”

Simmons closed his eyes.

This was fine. It wasn’t like that was a sign of trust or anything that Grif could totally use to fuck with the guy.

He started rubbing the shampoo against his head, moving some of it to his muzzle and quickly spreading it along. Then he moved onto the ears. Grif leaned closer, making sure to be careful as he handled each ear, rubbing out the dirt with his thumb. He definitely didn’t take note of now soft those ears were or how Simmons leaned in ever so slightly toward his hand. He shifted behind his ears, scratching the spot there.

Simmons’ head cocked to the side as a small sound escaped him.

Grif snorted. “Dude, if I scratch there any harder, you’re gonna start kicking your leg and fall.”

Simmons huffed.

Grif shrugged. “Fine,” he said, and scratched harder.

Simmons’ hind leg automatically started to kick.

He immediately fell belly-flat into the tub.

Grif didn’t bother trying to stifle his laughter.

Simmons tried to scramble back up, only to slip once more and splash water all over Grif.

“Stop!” Grif said around his laughs as Simmons continued his attempts. “Fucking--” He stopped himself, reaching over to grab around the whole of Simmons’ body, interlacing his fingers under his belly, and lifting him up.

Simmons finally found his footing, and Grif let go after a half-second too long. “You’re an idiot,” he informed him.

Simmons half-heartedly snapped his teeth at him.

Grif flipped him off. “Fuck you,” he said. “I’m gonna clean your back legs now. Don’t make it weird.”

“Reee-rooont,” said Simmons.

Grif grabbed Simmons’ back left leg, scrubbing along the side as fast as possible and mostly avoiding the back. He didn’t want to make it any more awkward than it already was. “Okay,” he said. “Turn so I can get the other one.”

Simmons did as instructed, splashing his paws across the water as he exposed his other leg.

Grif worked just as fast on that one. Then without warning, he scrubbed shampoo on Simmons’ lower back, digging his fingers under the fur and sudsing him up. 

Simmons froze.

“I just told you not to make it fucking weird,” he muttered as he shifted his right hand to run up Simmons’ tail.

Simmons didn’t look at him.

“I’m not scratching your ass, okay?” he said, sounding a bit more defensive than intended. “You’re just dirty as fuck.”

Simmons’ tail was stiff, sticking straight out.

Grif pulled back. “Okay,” he said, heat blooming at his cheeks. “That should be good enough.”

Simmons jumped from the tub.

Once again, Grif caught him, cursing wildly as he struggled to hold Simmons and throw him back down. “What the _fuck_?” he said. “We still have to wash out the shampoo.”

Simmons released a low, woe-is-me, howl.

Grif rolled his eyes. “Stop that. I’ll try to be fast.”

So he started scooping water from the tub to rinse out the shampoo. He wasn’t sure if it was the most effective strategy, given that the water was dirty, but it was the most convenient option. And Grif was all about convenience.

He was careful, of course, especially around the ears and eyes. Simmons was quiet, only occasionally digging a paw through the water.

As soon as Grif was about sixty percent sure he’d gotten most of the shampoo, he dropped back onto his ass with a heavy sigh. “All that’s left is drying.”

Simmons twitched.

Grif blinked. “Wait, don’t--”

Simmons shook.

Within the second, the bathroom was soaked in water. 

“You son of a bitch,” Grif said, blinking some of the drops from his eyes.

Simmons hopped from the tub with a long, closed-mouth grin. His tail was wagging wildly once more.

Grif tackled him with the towel, rubbing him wildly. Simmons squirmed on the floor, legs kicking every which way, tail still swinging side-to-side. “F- uck you!” he yelled when Simmons hit his face with one hind paw.

“Ruuuu-roowwww!”

“You’re an asshole!”

He barked again.

Grif wrapped his face in the towel and rubbed it wildly. Simmons made an annoyed chirping sound. Grif snorted, and patted where he was pretty sure Simmons’ ears were. “There,” he said, “that wasn’t so bad, now was it?” He pulled back the towel.

Simmons was revealed, fur sticking up. 

Grif petted it down. “You know,” he said, “if you had _really_ wanted to avoid this, you could’ve just turned back human. I’m getting the impression you wanted that bath.”

Simmons huffed.

Grif narrowed his eyes. “Wait, did you actually—”

“RHOOOOOOO—”

“Simmons, shut up!” he said, clamping his hands around his muzzle. “Ever heard of neighbors?”

Simmons nodded.

“Good.” Grif let him go. “Then let’s go make some money.”

He stood up, pulled the drain plug from the bathtub, decided putting Donut’s shampoo back upstairs and cleaning the bathroom would take too much effort, strolled out the door, and tried not to think about the fact that Simmons looked guilty as all fuck when he started asking that question.

Soon enough, they were back on the sidewalk. “Let’s head somewhere with kids,” he told Simmons, not bothering to look down. “They love getting their parents to look at dogs, and parents feel awkward not giving us money. I know of a fountain people hang out by. C’mon.” 

He led the way down the sidewalk. His memory of the area was flimsy at best, and he wasn’t even sure if the center of town was still that, seeing as big renovations had obviously been made since the last time he’d been here.

Grif’s hands were in his pockets as he walked, Simmons brushing against his legs as he trotted along. He was still a bit wet, but at least he didn't smell bad.

Grif glanced down.

Simmons actually looked happy, nose in the air and mouth open, his tail taking on a lazy wag.

“So,” he said conversationally, “are you actually liking life outside your pack?”

Simmons met his gaze for a moment. Then he stepped into Grif’s path.

Grif nearly fell over top of him. “What the _fuck_ , Simmons!” he cried as he balanced himself.

Simmons barked before continuing on, jogging a few paces ahead of Grif. Damn -- he really should’ve gotten Simmons a leash.

People did give Simmons some second glances as they walked by, some people cooing at him.

Simmons, busy sniffing the buildings, didn't seem to notice.

“Hey, buddy,” he said once he’d caught up. “You gotta stay close to me; otherwise, some people might flip their shit.”

Simmons shifted back to the spot where his fur brushed against Grif’s leg.

“Damn-- that’s a nice looking dog you have there,” said a lean man with a narrow face, who immediately squatted down to be eye-level with Simmons. He cocked his head. “A boy, huh? How old is he?” He looked up and smiled, all teeth.

Simmons took a step back, tail beginning to swish low. “Uh,” said Grif, “not exactly sure. He was a stray.”

“That so?” The man unfolded his body to stand back up. “Seems shy. How long have you had him?”

What the fuck was with this interrogation? “A year,” he replied.

The man nodded. “So you must know that dog pretty well, then.”

“Isaac,” someone snapped, and Grif realized with a start that another, taller, bigger man had been standing right next to this guy holy shit. “We need to go.” The other man looked to Grif with a small frown. “Sorry for bothering you.”

Isaac made a face, and Grif’s hair rose. Silently, he watched as Isaac walked away and threw a, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you and your friend around,” over his shoulder.

When they were out of range, Grif finally shook his head. “What the _fuck_?”

Simmons’ nose hit the back of his hand.

He took that as his cue to keep moving. “Okay, objectively speaking here, that guy was kinda weird. Suspicious. I dunno -- I just got a bad feeling about him. Did it seem like he knew what we were? I hope not. That would be pretty fucking bad, and considering we’ve only been here for, like, a day, that would be--”

He cut himself short.

Grif didn't need to vocalize his concerns simply because Simmons’ couldn’t vocalize his. There was no need to compensate.

“Uh, I think the fountain is… this way?” he said, pointing to the left. They were standing before two streets branching outward in different directions, and trying to make a decision here seemed like a good way to get off his previous ramble. 

Simmons took a big whiff of the air.

“A fountain is like a thing with water, in case you didn't know that,” he added.

Simmons tilted his head to the right.

“Oh. Right. You can… probably smell the chlorine.” He wrinkled his nose. “Why the fuck would you know what chlorine smells like?”

Simmons huffed and moved one paw forward.

Grif rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Lead the way.”

Simmons lifted his head show-dog style and began to do exactly that.

An amused snort escaped Grif. “Adorable,” he said, only remembering at the last second to make it sarcastic.

Simmons acted as though he hadn’t said a word, which was evidence enough that he was flustered.

They walked on in silence, Grif looking around at everything that had changed and Simmons taking in everything new while still keeping close to the task at hand, as was his brand.

Thankfully, it wasn’t too far a walk -- Grif’s mouth had been opening, readying for a complaint when the tell-tale sounds of water running made him stop.

Simmons barked, a sharp sound that had a couple people turning their heads.

“Simmons,” he said, “don’t be loud. Or I’ll kick your ass.”

Simmons’ eyes were trained on the fountain, watching the water spurt from the center. A few people -- college-age students, by the looks of it -- were sitting at the edge and reading. There was already a kid splashing in the water despite the signs prohibiting such behavior, his mother watching him intently. Other kids were playing hopscotch nearby, and still others sitting on a swing set next to a slide he was quite certain hadn’t been there before. He narrowed his eyes and read the plaque next to it: “Donated by the generous Malcolm Hargrove, cherished benefactor of the community”. 

Simmons’ gaze had turned to the swing set, head tilted in curiosity.

“That’s a swing set,” Grif explained. “You… swing. On it. Pretty straightforward.”

Simmons nodded.

“You talk to your dog like it’s a real person,” said a voice, and Grif jumped before whipping around.

A man with blond hair and a soft smile was looking at him. 

“Yeah, uh. I do, I guess,” Grif responded. “He’s insanely smart, though, so he probably understands me.”

“Right,” said the man. “I used to have a dog like that. Except he was an Irish Wolfhound.” He grinned, but it seemed distant. “My sister hated him, though. He was… kind of an asshole. Does yours know any tricks? Seems pretty well-behaved.”

“Yeah, he knows uh…” His mind blanked. “Well, you name it, and Simmons probably knows it.”

The man lifted a brow. “Really?” He cocked his head at Simmons. He knelt down slightly and stuck out a hand. “Can you shake?”

Simmons ignored the hand in favor of just shaking his whole body once more. A little bit of water flew off.

“Simmons, you _dick_ ,” Grif said, glaring at him. “He meant to give him your fucking paw.”

Simmons huffed, then lifted his right paw and put it in the man’s hand.

The man chuckled and shook it. “Hey, Simmons,” he said, the smile turning up at the corner. “You two can call me North.” He stood back up, pulling his hand away from Simmons to direct it to Grif. 

The fuck kind of name was North? What was with these people with weird names?

Grif shook it. “Grif,” he said.

“Nice to meet you. And uh…” North tilted his head and but the inside of his cheek. “I saw that a man -- Isaac -- took an interest in your dog. I’d be careful with him.” His pensive look turned pointedly meek. “He tends to go after Simmons’ kind.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Grif replied automatically.

Simmons took a couple steps back, his tail starting to go low.

North glanced to the side, the motion almost looking casual. Then he said, “I honestly don’t know what you know, but weredogs really shouldn’t be in public as dogs when they’ve just been cleaned. They get a distinct smell for… _people_ like me.”

“What the _fuck_?” Grif said. He knew Simmons was a weredog? What the hell oh shit that meant he’d put Simmons in danger _shit_. And what did North mean by “people?” Grif couldn’t smell anything particularly unusual, other than the strong odor of rose from Donut’s shampoo.

North lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s just a word of advice. I’m not your enemy. The hunters are.”

“I need you to stop talking for one second,” said Grif, “because, seriously, what the fuck?”

Simmons was almost behind Grif’s legs at this point, head peeking out slightly. 

North stared at him for a moment. “I… can’t tell you much. Can’t put my sister in any danger.”

That struck a chord in Grif’s chest. He swallowed past the feeling. “But what can you say?”

North shrugged. “I’m not as familiar with weres, but some advice would be for Simmons to wait twenty-four hours before going dog again so hunters won’t easily find him. Isaac and Sam are some of them. And, uh, keep to the woods during full moons. Obviously.” He scratched behind his ear. “I haven’t run into too many weres here -- though I’d bet money Sarge is an older one. But yeah, keep your head low. My kind is probably more prone to danger than yours, seeing as you’re literally walking him like a dog.”

That… sounded almost like he was insulting them. “And what’s your kind?”

“Like I said--”

“If your kind or whatever can smell my friend and me, I’d like to know what to look for,” Grif retorted.

North looked somehow more intimidating as he straightened his back. He was still shorter than Grif, but his arms and legs were lined with muscle, and he held himself like he knew exactly how to take Grif down. “We all look the same when we’re human.”

“Wait.” He narrowed his eyes. “What creature’s eyes flash red in sunlight?”

North blinked. “Uh, sorry, kid. I don’t know of anything that does that. Besides,” he added, “I doubt there’s that many creatures in the night.” He grinned again, not unkindly. “You must’ve been seeing things.”

Simmons circled to Grif’s other side and sat down next to him. He lifted his nose to the air. “Ramm--riiiirrrrrr.”

Both North and Grif looked and at him.

Simmons was staring at North. “Rraaaaammmmmm--rrriiiiiiiieeeeee--”

“Oh.” North looked disappointed. “I forgot you had enhanced senses in that state.”

Simmons’ tilted his head. Grif could tell he was smug.

North sighed. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, now looking between both Grif and Simmons. “If the two of you say nothing about the vampire den, I won’t say anything about you weres.”

Grif wanted to fucking die. “Vampires aren’t real,” he said.

“Technically, neither are werewolves.”

Grif pursed his lips. “Or fairies. Or Dullahans.”

North blinked. “What?”

“What?” Grif parrotted.

North glanced up, looking a tad annoyed. “Vampires are real, yes.”

“Uh, no, ‘cause vampires can’t walk in sunlight.” Grif smirked. “So fuck you, asshole.”

North closed his eyes. “Simmons should head back indoors. Or turn human. I was just giving you some advice -- be careful around here.”

Weren’t vampires and werewolves mortal enemies or some shit? Like, Sarge’s-story level enemies?

No fucking way this guy was a vampire.

“Yeah, whatever you say, Edward,” Grif offered with a derisive snort.

North’s eyes widened. “Wait, how di--” Then he clamped his jaw shut. “You… were talking about _Twilight_ , weren’t you?”

Grif pursed his lips. “I was. But, uh… good to know you fit that stereotype. Me and Simms are gonna bust out and lay low for a bit. So bye.”

With that, he turned on his heel and led the way at a speed-walk back to Sarge’s.

There were too many things to think about, and he figured he wasn’t the only one with questions.

He also figured he and Simmons knew someone who had some answers -- it’d just take a bit of work getting them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it really a surprise these two get absolutely fucking nothing done.


	9. Misplaced Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker needs a place to crash. Caboose wants to see something neat. Church is... there.

As inevitable as it was, Tucker still couldn’t help but be a little annoyed at his current predicament.

Perhaps inevitable was the wrong word for it. ‘Stupid’ fit it better, he thought as he picked himself off the grass with a grunt. 

Stupid fit a great many things, he’d found over the years. For example, humans were fucking stupid. He, himself, was stupid, but he was also _not_ stupid, which was a tenuous but significant line he’d been balancing quite nicely. 

But this? This was stupid.

He looked around, narrowing his gaze as he adjusted to the darkness. It wasn’t _dark_ per se -- the sun simply wasn’t very bright. It took some getting used to.

There wasn’t anyone nearby. He wasn’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment, but for now, it meant he was on his own.

Tucker arched his back, rolling his shoulder muscles. He’d been to Earth before, of course, and gotten a feel of the physical body. Still, the transition was jolting. He winced at the sudden spark of pain in his abdomen. Now more than ever. He’d never actually felt pain before, so this was… not good. There was a difference between bruises earned through pleasure and bruises earned through plummeting a countless distance to the unrelenting ground below.

After a moment’s hesitation, he carefully stretched out his wings, unfurling them bit by bit in case they’d been damaged, too.

His lowest pair came smoothly, arching out, feathers tapping the grass without much trouble. 

Tucker quickly pulled them out of the corporeal realm. They didn't feel as secure as they had in the past, but it was necessary.

He moved onto his primary set of wings. 

Almost instantly, hurt laced along the bones, arcing down and striking his back.

He gritted his teeth and shoved them out of the corporeal realm as well. The pain was muted then, present only in sharp bursts along his back, specifically around where his wings connected. 

Hopefully they’d somehow get better in the other realm. Recover. How did bones heal again?

Fuck. He really should’ve paid more attention to Michael when he was spouting all his “I’m the Saint of Doctors and Know Shit But Am Also the Baddest Archangel in Town” and what-fucking-ever bullshit.

He’d be fine.

Tucker rolled out his shoulders once more. Rolling out shoulders was a human thing, right? Right. He knew that shit, and he was smooth as fuck. He could figure this out.

Sure, he’d sorta fallen or whatever, but that wasn’t a big deal.

Tucker still wasn’t entirely sure what caused him to suddenly drop, but now wasn’t the time for questions. Now was the time to have a good fucking time while ignoring his problems and pretending that there was nothing weird or wrong with the fact that he may have been mortal now but he still had his wings but he couldn’t fly because his primaries were fucked and technically his kind should never ever ever be on Earth because he was a fucking seraph.

As far as angels went, Tucker was fairly certain he didn't fit the bill.

Well, he _was_ hot. Humans thought angels were hot, right? Let alone angels that were technically the most powerful type of all the nine orders?

Okay.

Tucker took an unsteady step forward. Each time he came to Earth, actually moving was another thing he had a hard time getting used to. At least no one was around to watch him bumbling around like a baby deer. Wait, were deer extinct or was that something else? Fuck if he cared.

His vizor wings were still tucked behind his back. He wasn’t sure what his eyes would do in this not-quite-angel-definitely-not-human state, but he wasn’t exactly willing to test it out.

For now, he needed to lay low.

And maybe lay in other ways, too. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.

He adjusted the wings so they were in front of his eyes before pulling those from the corporeal realm as well.

Awesome. Now he just needed to get his bearings. Maybe convince some hot chick to let him spend the night.

Or eat. He was pretty sure that was what he was feeling. Hunger. 

Fucking _mortals_ , man.

\----

Church was clinging desperately to Caboose, his face shoved into that mop of brown hair as he muttered a string of curses.

He’d never admit it, but he was actually having fun. Fun? Fun. Right, he knew what fun was.

Caboose stopped before quite nearly every passerby, asking them if they saw his best friend, and Church tried not to let his surprise show each time. It felt like something was twirling in his stomach, a kind of soft, timid buzz tracing where his veins would be (were? Was he alive like this?).

“What’s this?” asked Caboose, skirting to another sudden stop.

Church picked his head up. Then he sighed. “It’s a water fountain, Caboose. You… drink water from it.”

“That sounds exciting!” Caboose replied, leaning forward. A man stepping out of the bathroom on the right side of the fountain gave them a weird look but otherwise offered no comment. “How does it work?”

Why in the fuck was Caboose fascinated with every goddamn little thing? Church probably should’ve been more appreciative -- this was his first time out of the apartment, after all -- but water fountains were mundane as fuck.

But he could technically try something with this.

“I’m gonna--” he said before pulling his legs slightly from Caboose’s grip. Caboose immediately let him go, and Church dropped to the floor, one hand still gripping Caboose’s arm. He took a step forward, reached out, and pressed the button.

It caved into his touch, and instantly, water began to flow from the spout.

“Woah,” said Caboose, sounding genuinely impressed. “I could’ve done that.”

Church scowled. “Yeah, you and everyone else, asshole.”

There was a small gasp, and Church turned in time to see a woman put her hands over her daughter’s ears. “Please watch that mouth of yours in public -- especially so close to the playground!”

Church had half a mind to flip her off.

He took his hand from Caboose’s arm and did just that. She couldn’t get pissed by what she didn't see--

Her face twisted to a scowl. “Now that’s hardly appropriate either.”

“Mom, what does that mean?”

“What the fuck,” said Church.

“Mom, what does fuck m--”

“Annie! We don’t--”

“It’s still--?” said Church, and then a feeling like being doused in water overcame him, “--working?”

“Holy _shit_ ,” said the mom, her hands dropping.

“Um, Church? You are playing hide-and-seek again,” Caboose said, his tone mild.

He had the sudden sensation that he was sinking, his body growing far too heavy between one second and the next.

Caboose grabbed his hand, and the weight lifted.

The woman blinked. “I’m--”

“Special effects,” he blurted. “We’re street magicians.”

“That sounds fun,” Caboose stated, swinging Church’s hand. Church ignored the way their interlaced fingers made his face hot, still somehow reeling from his time between Living and Dead and how his physical manifestation and Caboose played a part in that and why this didn't make any fucking sense--

“O- oh,” she said, her eyes still wide.

“We’re gonna go,” he added, and immediately tugged Caboose’s hand (and he could feel his muscles straining to do so, feel the effort taking place beneath his skin, could feel Caboose’s skin against his and sense the warmth radiating from him like a furnace).

Caboose followed, waving goodbye. As soon as he reached Church’s stride, he resumed swinging their hands. Church shot him a glare and forced their hands still. “Stop that.”

“Okay!” chirped Caboose, unbothered by his tone. “I like holding hands, too. It is nice. Your hand feel nice, Church.”

He glowered. “Whatever.”

“I think water is nice, too. Can I go back and drink some?”

“Absolutely not. I almost got outed as a ghost right there. That’s bad.”

“Why is that bad?”

Church huffed, ready to offer another indignant reply. “Because-- because, uh… I dunno, humans would experiment on me or some shit. No thank you to that.”

Caboose sighed, a deep and an exaggerated form of sad. “I guess I will have to find other water to drink from.”

They began to approach a couple walking a small, rat-faced dog.

Church’s grip tightened slightly. The one dog that a tenant had brought seemed to hate him, and he doubted going on a walk with a demon would do him any favors.

“Doggie!” said Caboose, his face brightening, his maybe-faux sadness about water fountains draining in an instant. He looked at the owners. “Can I pet your dog?”

The man smiled and opened his mouth.

The dog barked, sharp and wild. Church expected it to tuck tail and run away, but instead it was wagging its tail and smiling broadly at Caboose, its paws bopping off the ground in excitement.

What the fuck even.

Caboose knelt down, dragging Church with him. “Hello I am Caboose nice to meet you!”

“Goddammit,” he ground out.

The dog wriggled into Caboose’s free hand, and he began scratching behind its ears.

“He’s never really taken to a stranger quite like that before,” said the woman, amused. Caboose was too engrossed in the dog to take note, so she turned her attention to Church. “Your boyfriend seems to have a way with dogs.”

The heat returned. Fuck. He’d known Caboose for all of -- what? One day?

They had been holding hands, so he supposed it was a natural mistake. And explaining why they were holding hands would only lead to more complications. “Guess so,” he said instead, forcing what he hoped looked like a halfway decent smile.

This was a weird situation. 

Caboose jumped back up. “Your dog is very sweet and I love him!”

The man grinned and exchanged a look with the woman. “Thank you. It was nice running into you.”

Caboose tilted his heads. “Y- y’know, people are just so nice here! It was nice to meet you!”

With that, Caboose surged onwards. “Zagoronathan said there is a big water thing this way--”

“Who said what?”

“The dog!”

“Caboose, your normal is not normal,” Church informed him, stumbling to keep pace with the demon. “How do you speak to dogs? And why do they like you?”

“Um, probably because I like them?” Caboose responded, his tone edging on indignant.

For fuck’s sake.

“But you’re a _demon_.”

“Yes. And you are a ghost. Now I am going to the water fountain because Zagoronathan said it came highly recommended, and maybe we will even make more friends there!”

“Zagora--Zagorona-- what- fuck it. We’ll go to the water fountain.”

Caboose tread onwards, lengthening his strides. Church was practically at a jog to keep up, and he was biting back curses every time he tripped, which was admittedly far too often. Only once they’d made it to a plated circle on the floor with water bursting from various holes did Caboose finally stop.

“This,” Caboose said, “is really neat.”

It was obviously cheaply made, but it served its purpose well. There was water, after all.

Church stuck out a hand, immediately dousing it in the ice-cold liquid.

He pulled it back. Right. Cold. He could feel the cold. It… didn't hurt, really. Not like he’d expected it to, for whatever reason.

Caboose made an intrigued sound. “You like the water?” Then he started to walk forward.

Instantly, Church dug his heels into the ground with a yelp. “Do _not_ walk into the water, Caboose!”

His hold obviously didn't have an effect, but Caboose stopped nonetheless to turn and pout. “Why not?”

“B- because!” he squawked. “Then you’d be wet!”

“And I can make myself dry really fast,” Caboose countered.

“You don’t--” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “don’t do shit like that in front of people.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno!-- Magic yourself dry?”

“Um, it’s not magic when you’re just shaking _really_ hard.”

This was ridiculous. “Okay. You can put your hand in the water. You can even drink the water, but you are not allowed to go bodily into it.”

Caboose blinked. Then his eyes narrowed.

Church frowned. “Were you listening, or…”

He was practically glaring, as much as it seemed Caboose _could_ glare, glancing around suspiciously. His eyes were taking on a deep red undertone.

“Uhhhh--” said Church.

Caboose’s head stopped moving, eyes landing on one man in particular.

The man stopped looking around at exactly the same time. His lips pulled down into an annoyed frown. “You have _got_ to be kidding me,” he said, before walking right over.

“Caboose,” said Church, taking a step back and gripping the demon’s arm tighter. “What the hell is that?”

He… _looked_ normal, with dark skin, hair pulled back in messy dreads, and a short stature. But there was an energy radiating off him that was different from Caboose. 

He stopped once he was in front of them, staring solely up at Caboose. “‘Kay,” he said, cocking his head, “I don’t give a shit that you’re a demon -- never did understand that whole ‘war of species’ of whatever the hell the problem is given that you guys ain’t shit -- _but_ ,” the man continued, clapping his hands together, “I have, like, no reason to kill you. So don’t give me one.”

Caboose wrinkled his nose, looking even more annoyed. “You are stupid,” he informed the man.

“What the fuck,” said Church.

The man’s gaze snapped to him.

Or, well, it seemed like it did? Church… couldn’t quite see his eyes, despite looking right in their direction. 

“You human?” the man-- thing?-- asked. “Because this dude you’re holding hands with isn’t. Surprise?”

Church glowered. “I’m not a complete dumbass, you--”

“If you’re mortal, I’m pretty sure dumbassery fits the bill.”

“-- _and_ I’m not even mortal.” 

“Oh. Eh, whatever. Quick question: are deer extinct? Because I seriously can’t remember if that’s deer or indohyus. They all sorta blend together, y’know.”

“Um, deers are still a thing, stupid angel,” said Caboose.

“Wha?” said Church.

“It’s _deer_. Like, singular, except not. Proto-Germanic roots, and all that.”

“It is used both ways in modern English,” Caboose countered.

What the hell was happening? Was Caboose arguing etymology with an angel?

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Church, putting his hands up. “Are you actually an angel? Or is he just calling you that because it’s considered offensive to demons?”

The man’s annoyed expression contorted into one of pride. “Dude, look at me. Of course I’m an angel. I look fucking _divine_.”

Church wasn’t sure how old he was in any given sense of time, but he nonetheless felt like he’d aged ten years in the past few hours alone. “Angels can curse?”

“Don’t stereotype me.”

“I… sorry?”

“Don’t suck up to me either. It’s not like I’m gonna get you into heaven myself.” After a moment, the angel leaned forward. “Wait, what the hell are you? Can you see my wings right now? It kinda looks like you’re in between the corporeal and--”

“I’m a ghost, and shut the fuck up. Angels are assholes, and we’re leaving. C’mon, Caboose.”

He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t being impulsive. He was just trying to get away from the current problem at hand, which was an entirely acceptable thing to do when your worldview was casually being ripped to shreds right in front of you. Again.

“Okay,” said Caboose, easily following his lead.

“Wait!” said the angel skirting in front of their path and holding up a hand. “I can help you guys.”

Church pursed his lips. “Why, and what do you want,” he asked flatly.

He leaned back, looking almost nervous. “Okay. I sorta need a place to stay, and honestly, staying with a demon and a dude who thinks he’s a ghost might be a pretty good deal.”

An angel and a demon staying together sounded like a recipe for disaster from a foundational perspective.

“No,” said Caboose.

The angel shot Caboose an annoyed look. “Dude, you and I both know it’s stupid to hold a grudge against me just because I’m different than you. Besides, I technically-sorta fell from heaven, so that gives us something in common.”

“I never fell,” said Caboose. “Me and my sisters were always there.”

“You know what I mean!”

“I don’t,” said Church. “You fell? Doesn’t that mean you’re a demon?”

“ _No_ , because it’s _complicated_ , and I only _sorta_ fell. But that’s not what matters! What matters is that I need to place to crash while I figure everything out.”

Caboose huffed. 

“C’mon,” said the angel. “Prove that not all demons are evil. Fuck stereotypes.”

“I am not evil,” said Caboose.

“See!”

“But that was a problem back home,” Caboose finished.

The angel blinked. “Oh. Well, uh. I can… help you be more evil? If that’s what you want?”

“Isn’t that counterintuitive?” said Church.

“Eh, don’t overthink it. Besides, I can, uh… make you corporeal. Like, completely. See? Both of you get helped.”

What. “Make me corporeal?”

The angel almost looked relieved that Church bit on that bait. He nodded fervently. “Yeah! That’s why you’re with the demon, right? He’s grounding you.”

“I’m-- he, uh-- we’re--”

“I’m Ch-urch’s best friend,” said Caboose, and his hand tightened around Church’s. “You are not going to hurt my best friend.”

“The fuck? Church? Is that seriously your name?”

“I’m-- yes, uh-- I think so?-- it--”

The angel barked out a laugh. “Dude, you’re a fucking mess.”

Church scowled. “Says you.”

His comment was waved off. “But yeah! I can help you guys. Look, I won’t be around long, and I don’t expect to get along perfectly, but trust me -- it’s worth it.”

Caboose sighed and looked down to Church. “It is your home,” he said. “And if he can help you…” He trailed off there.

Goddammit.

Church eyed the angel, who was now balancing back on his heels. “Fine,” he spat, earning a wide smirk that had him instantly regretting his decision. “What’s your name?”

“Tucker,” the angel responded.

“Tucker,” Church parrotted. “Seriously?”

“Hey, fuck off. It’s a cool name.” He bounced onto his toes. “Now show me to your place. You got any ladies there? Do you _want_ ladies there, ‘cause I can get them to come, if you know what I mean. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Church furrowed his brow. “Is it possible to die twice? Because you’re currently making me wish I could.”

“Don’t be such a bitch about it! You, too, could be a ladies-man if you actually _tried_ , y’know! I mean, you’d have to stop with the resting bitch face, but I can teach you--”

Church started walking. He was pretty sure he saw Caboose stick his tongue out at Tucker.

He was fine with being a ghost. But… he didn't want to rely on a demon to be able to interact consistently with other people. If Tucker could help push him into a more physical, constant form of existence, it was worth the try.

Besides, Tucker was an angel. He couldn’t be _that_ bad.


End file.
